


Blood Offerings

by CommanderSpork



Category: Black Sails
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Polyamory, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderSpork/pseuds/CommanderSpork
Summary: Several years after his revolutionary plans were put to an abrupt halt, James Flint is living a simple life with the one who owns his heart. When an unexpected visitor arrives in the night all involved are forced to deal with a past they thought was behind them. Will old wounds be reopened, or has time equipped them with the neccessities to reach new territory?





	Blood Offerings

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in a few days immediately after the season 4 finale, and then let it sit on my pc for a year like an idiot. Many thanks to Emma (http://crazybloglady.tumblr.com/) for putting me on the road to publication with her awesome beta'ing. 
> 
> It felt like Black Sails ended with certain things unresolved. This is my answer in the form of a post-canon wrap up.

The soft flame of the beside candle cast a dim flickering light. Flint watched it with hooded eyes, lying comfortably in the curl of Thomas’ arm. They dozed to sleep like that most of their nights.

               In another life they might have read a book before going to sleep. Each their own, or one reading to the other. But that was when most of their labor was done with their minds. Besides, they couldn’t afford books. Now, they had this.

               When they weren’t tired of the day’s work –  and that happened sometimes, as the years passed had taught them both how to bear hard physical labor – they would enjoy each other. On such nights, they talked – about the day’s passing, the past, the future, or that which is entirely abstract of time – or they made love. On days when they were worn out, they would just lie there quietly instead. Watching the candlelight as they slowly drifted off to sleep.

               Flint shifted. “There is someone outside.”

               Thomas stroked Flint’s arm.

               “At this hour?” he said. “Of course not, love. Go to sleep.” His voice was warm and full of love.

               “There is though,” Flint insisted. “Listen.”

               Thomas drew his eyes up to the ceiling, and listened very intently. Almost holding his breath.

               “An animal, perhaps.”

               If it was an animal, Flint thought, he should go outside and chase it off. It could kill their chickens or ruin the crops. He didn’t bring it up though. If he would, Thomas would simply kiss him and tell him it was alright. And it was. They did not have a luxurious life, but their world would not come apart if Flint did not give into every controlling and paranoid urge. At first, Thomas often needed to remind him of that. Now, he knew. In fact, worries such as this one were sparse. Flint closed his eyes, concentrated on the warmth and his breathing. Sleep wasn’t far.

               A rapping sound came from the door. It was clear as day. A piece of metal being knocked against it in a purposive manner. Flint and Thomas looked at each other. There had been someone, after all. Though neither of them could for the love of God imagine who it could be. Someone lost, a wanderer perhaps. Or someone with ill-intent. Flint got up and slipped out the dagger from its hiding place behind the headboard. He took the candle from the bedside table.

               Light-footed, he walked across their house. It was small, only a few paces. He tried to peek through the window about two yards away from the door. The angle wasn’t right to see who could be standing outside. Whoever build this place hadn’t thought that through. Flint sighed and went to the door. He opened it a crack, blade hidden out of sight.

               In front of him stood a short, hooded figure. The stranger took a step forward. Flint’s hand tensed around the blade, ready to strike. Blood was pumping through his veins. It had been a long time since he fought. Would he still be fast enough? The stranger wasn’t very tall, but could be strong. They could be carrying weapons under their cloak. Flint would make sure to protect Thomas though. Whatever the cost.

               The figure took off the cloth which had obscured them into anonymity – revealed were dejected blue eyes and a mass of black curls.

               “Flint,” the figure said.

               “John Silver,” Flint gasped.

               “May I come in?”

               For a moment Flint did nothing. Then he stepped aside and held the door open, too fazed to think the better of it. John stepped forward, bowing his head slightly as he moved underneath Flint’s outstretched arm. He hopped through the small room and sat himself down at the table, which looked massive in their little house. There were only had two chairs at the table. They had only ever needed two. Realizing that made the situation catch up with Flint.  He saw John Silver sitting inside his house, inside his life, and his gut twisted.

               “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone accusatory.

               “I’ve come to see you,” John said flatly.

               Flint’s breathing sped up. The humidity of the room was too restricting. The heat suffocating. He felt the room spinning. He found purchase on the back of the other chair. Leaving the blade on the counter next to him.

               “I don’t know how you found me, and I wish you hadn’t. I don’t want to come back to the life. I don’t want you to talk about it. I don’t want to give you any advice. I’m not going to tell you where the gold is. I need you to leave. Next time, I will not be found here again.”

               “What is going on?” Thomas asked, entering into the dim light.

               “This is John,” Flint said. “He is not supposed to be here.”

               Thomas assessed the situation, calmly and reasonably. Like he always did. He looked at his lover first, and then at John. He addressed John when he spoke again: “Why are you here?”

               John Silver just sat, and stared. His shoulder hung, and his eyes were sad. He was all bare bones and naked emotion. Pleading without having the energy to plead. It created a moment where first introduced itself with all its enormity, and then created a keen awareness that the night time wasn’t silent at all.

               “Did you come all the way from town by foot?” Thomas asked.

               “Er… no,” John stuttered. “I have a horse. I tied him up outside.”

               Thomas’ chin stuck forward as he thought. Then he shifted, straightening his stance.

               “James, would you go out and get the horse some water?”

               Flint’s fingers fiddled with the chair.  In the past, Thomas’ suggestions had always been the right thing to do. They had been the rope he had used to pull himself out of many situations like these. Situations where past and present instincts collided to create a hurricane.

               So he went to supplement his nightgown with boots and breeches.

               After Flint’s departure, Thomas sat down opposite of Silver. With his hands folded neatly under his chin, he sat watching him silently. Silver had his gaze to the floor. His hair obscured most of his face. He sat a little hunched over. Finally, he turned and searched out Thomas’ eyes.

               “I’m not here for any of that. To pull him back into it. I’m just…,” John Silver paused. His mouth was open and his tongue pressed to the inside of his teeth. He searched the bleak walls as he searched for words. “I couldn’t bear not to see him again.”

               “We have found our peace here,” Thomas offered gently. “This did not come without effort. Have you thought about what this would do to him?”

               “I know,” John said. It came out with a heavy sigh. His eyes went to the floor again. Even though he was seated, the physical strain of the weight he put on his crutch was evident.

               Silence settled again. Thomas thought about the silver earring James still kept in that little jar. His eyes sought it out on its place on the shelf. They had sold all the other pieces of jewelry, but that, James would not part with.

               “Perhaps, I better go,” Silver said, and he was already hopping away from his seat. “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

               “No,” Thomas said. “The journey must have worn you. It is the middle of the night. I would not consider it good manners to ask you to depart now.”

               Silver halted, held his position, held his pose, appearing in every aspect like a man weighing his options.

               “I know I have no right,” he said finally.

               Thomas drew nearer. Not purposively, but more as an accidental stop on his way to somewhere else.

               “If you speak truthfully about your motives, you are a welcome guest,” Thomas said. “I hope simply, that you are decent enough not to attempt to unearth things from the bottom of the ocean.”

               It did not have the vaguest resemblance of a threat. Not from this man. From this man, such a thing was a genuine request, a genuine appeal to the best in John Silver. And caught in Thomas’ gaze, John looked so utterly lost. Like an orphan who realized for the first time his solitary, defenseless existence was not the default state of life.

               The door swung open, and Flint entered. He stepped out of his boots at the door. When one was responsible for keeping a place clean, barging in with mud-drenched boots was no longer so very appealing. Gingerly, Flint shut the door behind him. He remained near it, and watched.               

               “We cannot offer you a bed, but for tonight you are welcome to our arm chair,” Thomas said. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

               From the bedroom, Thomas got one of the spare blankets they used during exceptionally cold nights, and gave it to Silver. They had only one arm chair. Thomas and Flint took turns enjoying it. When one of them occupied it, the other would sit on a kitchen chair or the footrest. Now, the footrest  was pulled close to accommodate Silver’s legs. When Flint had entered, Silver had followed Thomas to the chair. Easiest way to put distance between them. But only after Thomas had fussed for several minutes – getting Silver a pillow, and some milk, and asking him if he needed anything else – did Silver actually sit down in it.

               Like a cautious cat, Flint remained near the door. Thomas came up to him. He used his body to shield Flint from the remainder of the house, creating an illusion of privacy.

               “Are you all right?”

               Flint nodded. Though he glared at the figure in the corner of his living room like it was a predatory animal.

               Thomas took Flint’s face between both his hands, and kissed Flint gently. Their foreheads touched as Thomas said: “Let’s go to bed now, love. We can tend to this tomorrow. Okay?”

               “Okay.”

 

***

 

James McGraw Flint was woken up by the gentle sunlight warming his face. The scent of his lover surrounded him. It made happiness bubble up from his gut – filling him from tip to toe with gratitude for this being his world. For Thomas being his world. For there not being a hundred more men beyond that door who were waiting for him. Requiring him to keep his full attention and capacity at the ready. Requiring him to make life or death choices with an inconsequentiality in his manner as if he was deciding whether to grow or shave his beard. Flint rolled onto his side.

               His lips latched onto the first piece of skin they encountered. It was Thomas’s rounded bicep. He placed a wet open-mouthed kiss on it.

               The first time Flint had seen Thomas undressed after their reunion, the new musculature had been odd, but endearing, to see. The first time they made love again, it was an altogether new sensation for Flint to find the man whose flesh he’d known to be as soft as his personality now existing of hard planes and swollen muscles.

               “Hmm,” Thomas hummed. “Good morning.”

               Flint trailed a path of wet kisses up his lover’s arm, shoulder, neck and face. He ended at Thomas’ mouth. Thomas’  hand found itself under Flint’s gown, and quietly – aside from Flint’s faint moans into Thomas’ neck – Thomas got Flint off.

               Flint lay calmly catching his breath after the act was done. Thomas was lying half on top of him, smiling affectionately.

               Suddenly, Flint’s eyes grew wide. “Fuck.”

               Thomas’ affectionate smile faltered, as the realization must have sunk in Flint  hadn’t meant the verb. Thomas slid off of Flint, but not away.

               “Yes,” Thomas said. There was a moment of quiet, where Thomas just looked at Flint. Searching his face for the clues he could read so well.

               “I think you should give this opportunity a chance. If you send him away now, I do not think he will ever come back, and I do think you will regret that.” Thomas stared at Flint pointedly. “Still, if you say at any point you want him to go, I’ll make sure he does.”

               Flint closed his eyes. Sighed. He looked up again – and kissed Thomas. Then he rolled out of bed.

               Cracking open the bedroom door, all the usual aspects of their home were there. Right in front of him, the wooden table with the two chairs. Behind that, the slab of wood attached to the wall, with its pots and jars with food stuffs. Underneath it the shelves to store their plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery. Of everything no more than they needed. To the left the door to the storage. To the right the fireplace and the small open space which they considered the living room.

               At the same time, the scene was also different. The table was set: two plates and a bowl. The work space had traces of use. A set of herbs lying to the side, and a few pieces of it left scattered. Flint went to inspect it up close. Picked it up with the pads of his fingers. Sniffed it. All with a sort of wonder as if it was fairy dust, instead of common spices.

               He turned his head, and saw John Silver bend over a pan place over a crackling fire. A strand of curled black hair falling loose and dancing as he shook the pan.

               “Hi,” John said as he looked up. “I took some eggs from the chicken den. Hope that is not a problem.”

               Flint nodded. A part of the eggs was meant for consumption and the herbs were for that purpose too. Still, he stared at the pan with skepticism. There was no trace in the air resembling the smell of burned food. That ought to put him at ease.

               “Don’t worry,” John continued. “I’ve actually become good at this.”

               “Do you wish for any help?” Thomas asked, emerging from the bedroom.

               “Oh no, almost done,” John replied. “Go sit.”

               Unaccustomed to the situation, both men were slow to follow the request. Once they’d sat down, though, Thomas smiled warmly at Flint. His kind and gentle blue eyes told Flint to accept whatever was coming without fearful anticipation or worry.

               John hopped over with the pan in his hand. To Flint’s surprise it actually contained a solid omelet. No runny parts, instead a soft brown all over. The scent it carried made Flint’s stomach growl.

               Each man was given his share, after which John hopped back to put the hot pan away and pull over the footrest for himself to sit upon. The second  task was not the easiest thing for him, and Thomas observed the other man with sympathy. When he gave Flint an enquiring look, Flint shook his head. Upon his return, he poured Flint and Thomas each a cup of milk. As there were only two cups, he did not pour any milk for himself.

               Although every indication thus far had signaled the omelet would be good, Flint was still taken aback by its taste. He could still recall with great clarity the horror that had been John’s supposed roasted pig. After some practice, both on behalf of the cook and the consumer, John’s food had become possible to swallow without the urge to retch. But it had never been good. Flint didn’t really remember what that was like. He had probably made it blur in with every other bleak and dreary part of life aboard the ship – a necessary part of the daily survival routine.

               “This really is quite good,” Thomas said, after he had swallowed a bite. His hands resting on the table, but no longer searching for the napkin that wasn’t there.

               Silver smiled gratefully, but did not say anything.

               Thomas took a sip of milk, and as his gaze wandered over the table. He tensed. Swallowed his mouthful of food quickly.  “Oh,” he said.

               He placed his cup on the left side of his plate, and pushed it toward Silver – who promptly looked like he was going to protest.

               “No, please,” Thomas said. “I insist.”

               Silver picked up the cup and took an eager gulp. Some of the milk caught in his moustache, which was still as full and bushy as when Flint had last seen him. His hair hung loose around his head. Perhaps a little shorter now, but Flint couldn’t be sure. He wore a light embroidered shirt, and a collection of necklaces, both very akin to the style of Madi’s clothes and adornments. Akin to that worn by the men she had called subjects and friends. _Even if you can persuade her to keep you_ , Flint had told John with poisonous tongue. It had been such a wicked thing to say, and he had said it with such disdain. If only he could take it back now.

               John looked up and their eyes caught.

               “This is a good look on you,” John said, with a genuine smile.

               Unconsciously, Flint reached for his hair, that nipped at the shell of his ear. His own beard was gone altogether, but a layer of elected stubble graced his face. Flint too smiled, but averted his eyes to his plate.

               “Do you remember…,” Silver began.

               “What?” Flint asked, with an eagerness that immediately put him ill at ease.

               “No, err,” Silver responded. He played around with the remaining bits of his omelet. “I thought it was a nice story, but I remembered it was actually quite tragic. I’d, eh, rather not talk about it.”

               “Hmmpf,” Flint huffed.

               Silence settled over them. It was not the sort of comfortable content silence that sometimes was between Flint and Thomas. Or that, in days long past, had sometimes been between Flint and Silver – in the few moments when they’d been afforded space for such a thing. No, this was a more vicious silence, threatening to choke its bearers, growing ever more pregnant with the likelihood that the words of the one who’d finally speak, would cut through it like blades.

               Yet, the silence did not account for Thomas, who broke it with his usual mildness: “In the beginning of time, mankind lived a harsh and barren live. Every day after dark, humans were threatened by predators, and the ice of the night.”

               It was the beginning of a story. A story that was meant to be listened to. Both Flint and Silver did so gratefully. Under Thomas’s calm and gentle voice, an aura of ease and tranquility was laid over the scene. It even created the illusion that sun shining through the window was a little brighter than before. Breakfast was finished under the guidance of the tale.

               “And then finally, as the dreadful beast lay slain,” Thomas concluded, “the mortal man came to him and undid his chains. After ages of enduring the suffering he had been cast into, he was, at last, free.”

               Flint sought out Thomas’s eyes. The choice of this particular Greek myth, in this context, could hardly be considered a coincidence. Thomas’ expression was open and affectionate. When he casually turned the palm of his hand up, Flint did not hesitate to cover it with his.

               “What now?” John asked after a moment.

               “We clean up, and then we work the land,” Flint said.

               They had a smaller field with vegetables and spices intended for their own consumption; a chicken coup; one larger field with wheat; and an orchard. Most of the trees had been there when they moved here, and bore common fruits such as apples. However, they had planted a few olive trees as well. These gave them trouble through the humid summers, but the benefits were worth it. The yield of their lands was not abundant, but maintaining the farm in its current state gave them a good day’s work without the efforts being too harsh.

 

***

 

They started with their vegetable garden. It still being early in the year, most of their work consisted of planting seeds, watering the small stalks of the multi-year plants that were beginning to climb up of the ground, and removing weeds. John joined them without a word. Sometimes he waited a moment to observe, sometimes he asked for directions. However, at no point did he fall behind – wielding tools and crutch simultaneously with expert ease – nor complain. This not even when they sat working on their knees as the sun ascended the sky, and Flint knew from the ache in his own knees, the strain in his own legs, that this position must be especially uncomfortable for Mister Silver.

               When the sun was at its highest, they took a rest in the shade of the straw-covered overhang that  stuck out a meter or so in front of the house. Its orientation was such that it provided them with shade in the springs and summers, during the hottest time of the day. Flint had built it early on, when Thomas’ expertise in farming still far exceeded his and he’d felt the need to show he could contribute something of value.

               They broke open a jar of preserved peaches to eat. After all the time bottled up, they had lost most of their flavor.  But after all this time, Thomas and Flint had gotten used to food simply being sustenance.

               After their meal Flint and Thomas tended to the chickens, feeding them, refreshing their water, and collecting a number of eggs into a wicker basket. In the meantime, John took care of his horse.

               They inspected the wheat for any signs of vermin, insect infestations,  diseases or rot which might need interference. The inspection was methodical and careful.

               “Take a look at this,” Thomas called, at some point.

               Flint came over to where Thomas was he kneeling.  He bended down to look at the spot Thomas was indicating. There was a whole patch of wheat that was damaged by little nibbles at the stems.

               “Mice,” Flint sighed.

               “The number of affected crops is increasing,” Thomas said. “This is the third time this week we’ve found a spot this large.”

               “I told you, we’re long overdue for getting a cat,” Flint said, grinning, closing one of his eyes against the bright sun. His hand squeezed Thomas’s shoulder.

               “I know,” Thomas sighed. “That is what you said yesterday.”

               “Well, I don’t know what else you’d want me to say,” Flint said, and leaned in to kiss Thomas. When their lips parted he stood back up. “I could hardly stand here all day with a shovel to chase the mice off personally.”

               They both turned to look as John Silver laughed loudly. When he noticed the both of them staring at him, he attempted to stop. It still took him a moment to steady his breath.

               “Sorry, eh, that was funny,” John said. He turned away in a clumsy attempt to act as he was busy.

               “Well, at least someone appreciates my sense of humor,” Flint responded, a sense of triumph present both in his voice and pose.

               “Say that again tonight when I’ve got your cock down my throat,” Thomas retorted, at which they all laughed. Although Silver appeared a bit flustered.

               They finished with the wheat. That left only one thing to do outside of the house: the orchard. Currently, the trees were blooming, which made for a lovely picture. However, as the orchard was enclosed by a wall, John had most likely not seen it yet. Flint felt something fluttering in his stomach at the thought of showing it to him. He attributed the feeling to a sense of pride in being the patron of something beautiful, a sense of satisfaction that he could prove he was not only capable of fostering suffering and destruction.

               “What’s in here?” John asked, as he followed Thomas and Flint to the gate.

               Flint smiled as he pushed open the gate. John hopped forward, mouth hanging open while his eyes took in the scene. He huffed. He hopped forward further, then looked back with exhilaration. He went to one of the lower branches of an apple blossom, pulled it down and inhaled the scent of the flowers deeply. Next, he held the branch to line his face, blinking his eyes.

               “How do I look?”

               Flint watched him without speaking a word. He did not know for how long. How did he look? Like a Greek myth. Like a beautiful woman painted by a man whose tastes lay elsewhere. Like a poem.

               When Flint felt Thomas’ hand on his back, he was quite surprised to find himself inside the orchard with no memory of entering it.

               “Like a right fool,” Flint said. “Now, we have work to do.”

               First, they watered the trees, carrying buckets from the well to the orchard. Then Thomas and Flint discussed some of the trees, pointing at branches. Finally, they concluded they wanted to prune them further.

               A ladder was brought up, and Flint and Thomas took turns going up it to saw branches away, while the other held the frail thing in place. John subsequently dragged the branches away to the pile on the side of the orchard.

               When the day wore to its end, it was becoming clear that John was less used to the work than Flint and Thomas were. While the spring sun was still mild, the sweat rolled down his forehead. His face and neck became increasingly flushed.

               “Do you require a respite?” Thomas asked, as he came down the ladder.

               Flint had asked John this too when they were on their way to unbury a treasure that was to remain buried. That John Silver hadn’t needed breaks – for who takes a break when they have the reigns of the horse of faith firmly in their hands? This John Silver though, he might.

               John looked up. Heavy branch tugged under his arm. Too heavy to be moved by one person. “No. Just continue as you would ordinarily. I’ll carry my weight while staying here.”

               “Please, sit down in the shade,” Thomas pressed, with his serenity and boundless love. “I’ll give you something else to do, if you wish. It won’t do anyone any good if our guest burdens himself till he falls to the floor.”

               In all these years, Thomas had never lost his way. He had this manner of complete acceptance of any person or situation. He could converse with anyone and make them feel that they were enough. Flint had been astonished to find that quality still there, strengthened even, after everything Thomas had been through; to be on the receiving end of such unconditional acceptance, after everything he had done. It had done him so much good. Not least because whenever Thomas talked that way, Flint couldn’t resist him.

               John ran his hand over the branch before dropping it. Thomas nodded and went back to the house, as John hobbled his way to the shade of one of the larger trees. John grabbed the lower handle of his crutch and sank into the grass. He smiled, with a ray of sunshine catching in his eyes and on his teeth.

               Thomas reappeared with a half-finished wicker basket. Weaving baskets, sharpening knives, making new clothes. These were things that needed to be done, but they didn’t have the same pressing urgency as what they had to do out here. It were tasks like these they often fell behind on. Of course, that problem could be solved if one of them would work the land, and the other would do the household chores, but neither of them saw much joy in that. Alternately, Thomas had once joked that they should both take wives. Joke or not, that remark had driven Flint up the wall. Finally, he had dismissed the issue by asking Thomas where they would sleep – after all, their house didn’t have another bed.

               Thomas was showing John how to weave the basket. It was the side that needed to be done. Not a hard part, for sure. Still, John attentively followed Thomas’s kind instructions. He was calm and receptive. Thomas had that effect on people. It made him a good teacher. Yet, Flint had always found it rather endearing to teach John himself. When he stepped into the teacher role, John was never that receptive. First, there would always be cocky dismissals – the meat _was_ cooked, he _already_ knew how to fight, and why couldn’t he just charm his way out of this? In the meantime, John would always pay close attention, learn whatever he could. Learned a little too well in the end.

               Eventually, John was left with the basket, while Flint and Thomas carried away the heavy branch. After that, they moved on to pruning another tree. They worked on until the sun closed in on the horizon and the spring air became chilly. By that time, they had a good strong basket. One that they could take into town when they had things to sell or buy.

               The day’s work had left them anything but clean, traces of sweat and dirt clinging to their bodies. On their way back, they filled two buckets of water. One bar of soap and rag for Mr. Silver, and one for Thomas and Flint to share. Thomas stripped off his shirt without hesitation, washed himself like on any other day.

               Silver pressed his lips together. He had kept nearer to the door since they’d entered, eyeing the buckets. He had meekly accepted the supplies he’d been given, holding them passively in his hand. Only after observing Thomas’s gentle disregard, did he move toward the table. He rolled up his sleeves, and half turned away from the scene, he washed his forearms, face and whatever he could reach through the collar of his shirt.

               Having waited until both of his companions had put their cards on the table, Flint decided to follow the latter’s lead. Thomas regarded him for a moment when he requested the rag. There was no judgment in his eyes, in the crease around his mouth.

 

***

 

Dinner was stew, reheated from the day before. Like the morning, Thomas and Flint sat opposite of each other, and John at the head of the table.

               With little room to spare, it was inevitable that it happened, still when it did, Flint felt as if burned. His instinct was to snatch his arm away immediately. However, that would only draw attention to how his and John’s arms had touched, to how that was something he rather avoided. So instead, he tried to do it as gradually and casually as he could manage. Hoping that Thomas wouldn’t see, and John wouldn’t notice. A tough exercise with the two of them.

               John put down his spoon – luckily they did have several of those – and Flint was certain the ship would sink. John looked at him and smiled.

               “Have you ever told Thomas about the shark?” His voice was full of mirth.

               Thomas sat up straight, all keen interest. “What shark?”

               Flint swallowed, and smiled tensely. He looked at Thomas, sighed, and gave in.

               “We were lost at sea, floating around in the middle of nowhere,” Flint began. “There hadn’t been any wind to speak of for days, and our stores were almost empty.” He paused, gazed over his companions. “One day, we spotted a dead whale floating in the water. With the crew on the brink of starvation, we were desperate enough to have myself, and John over here, row out to it to see if there was any part of it that was salvageable. There was not. Then, as we are out there, _he_ starts banging the bottom of the boat with a harpoon.” Flint held his breath. “I thought he lost his wits and was attempting to sink us. Until, suddenly, the boat shakes. Peering over the side, we see the water is _invested_ with sharks. Fuckers had come to feast on the carcass. Huge monsters they were, twice the size of a grown man.”

               “And then?” Thomas asked, eyes sparkling.

               “This fool,” Flint said, pointing his spoon toward John, “merrily goes on to suggest we eat one of those.”

               “Did you?”

               “Yes,” Flint said. “We hunted it, we killed it, and then we ate it.”

               Thomas huffed, almost in disbelief, but not quite. “How? You just said yourself, they were sizable beasts, and from what I’ve heard, fierce too.”

               “Sheer force of will,” John Silver said, grinning. “He hunted it, and I hauled it in. Then we dragged it aboard and somehow managed to kill it before it could kill us. That thing was _alive_ when we put it in our little boat!”

               Thomas leaned back. “That is quite the tale indeed. Why haven’t you ever told me this, James?”

               Flint’s eyes left Thomas’s face and wandered over the table. The tale would have been truly heroic, was it not for the fact that the men were dying because orders he himself had given. Flint had not hidden the truth from Thomas. He had told Thomas about the sort of life he had led. About his goals and about his misdeeds, about how Miranda had gotten caught up in it and paid with her life. Yet, certain things he had left to eternity. Flint’s eyes sought out John’s.

               “Better to have left it for when I was here to back it up, don’t you think?”

               “Hmhm,” Thomas agreed. “I am not quite sure I would have even believed it, were it not for the both of you backing it up.”

               Flint knew  that Thomas was being amiable rather than fooled. Under the table he sought out Thomas’s leg with his foot. The way Thomas looked at him, Flint knew that everything was alright. They were alright.

               “Can you imagine,” Thomas began, “when I first met him, he used to think achieving anything out of the ordinary was an impossibility? This despite already having gone from carpenter’s son to the Admilralty’s golden boy – lieutenant in the Majesty’s Navy.”

               A bright smile broke onto John’s face. He laughed shortly. Flint shoved several spoons of stew into his mouth. He imagine it would at least give him the excuse of a mouth full of food to gain him a few seconds in which to attempt to come up with some sort of defense, when John would call attention to how it all ended with Flint believing he could take on all of civilization.

               “I can imagine rather well actually,” John said. “During our association, there have been times where I found him burying himself under impossibilities. When I got him out from there though, he always compensated by bringing the fucking sun down from the sky.”

               Flint looked at the dark-haired man in surprise. John’s voice had carried amusement, admiration. The last days they had spent together before parting ways, it had been resentment and distance that had characterized John’s manner towards him. Much of it based on John’s feelings about this very same topic.

               “What are you staring at me like that for?” John laughed, shoving playfully at Flint’s shoulder. “It’s no secret I hold you in esteem for the things you achieved. My god, I don’t think I would have stuck around as long as I did if it weren’t for that.”

               For a few moments, Flint wasn’t registering anything, until he saw Thomas mouthing: ‘thank you’.

               “Thank you, John,” Flint croaked.

               They finished dinner in silence. When their plates were finished, they continued to sit in silence a little while longer. Staring at the candle on the table as the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. Each, presumably, lost in their own thoughts.

               Suddenly, John stood up.

               “I almost forgot,” he said, hurrying to the armchair. He picked up his cloak, and started rummaging through it. Upon his return, he placed a book on the table next to Flint.

               “A gift,” he said, then faltered. Unnecessarily, he pushed the book a little further forward.  “From Madi.”

               Flint’s eyes only flicked over the book, preferring to regard John instead. He had been right then, that John’s style of dress indicated he was still with her. If that was the case though, why had she not come with? Had she not wanted to? Had John not wanted her to? Was she upset with him for giving up on what they had been doing? Despite all that was at stake for her? Or was he afraid that if she were to be exposed to Flint’s presence again, her determination would be sparked all over again? At any rate, Flint regretted she had not come.

               “She would like to know, if you think the author of this book has truly envisioned an ideal society, or if you think it simply another exercise of dictating traditional values. Her words, not mine.”

               Thomas reached over the table and picked up the book.

               “Thomas More,” Thomas mused. “It seems a lifetime ago when I read this one. James?”

               “Only a few passages,” Flint answered.

               They resettled nearer to the fire, and spent the next hour or two discussing the book. It was passed around between them, each taking turns reading a few passages out loud, after which they would start picking them apart. Examining and discussing its contents thoroughly. Flint and Thomas had their familiar back and forth where they would question and prod each other, only to help the other build up their argument. And then John would cut in with an entirely new perspective, which would force Flint and Thomas both to take a step back and rethink how even their critical thinking held a certain bias. Flint felt a warmth inside which wasn’t caused by the fire alone.

               When Thomas was taking a turn reading, John’s eyes began to fall shut and his head began to loll to the side.

               “Perhaps, it is time to go to bed,” Flint proposed.

               Thomas smiled, closed the book. “I agree. There is plenty of work to do tomorrow again.”  He stood and draped the blanket over John’s lap. John only barely rose to consciousness, before continuing his slumber.

“You go ahead,” Thomas said to Flint. “I’ll clean up.”

               When Thomas entered the bedroom, Flint sat reading over some of the passages they had discussed, smiling. Hearing the door close, he looked up. Thomas was carrying a bucket into the room.

               “Off with that,” he said, as he nodded to Flint’s shirt.

               Flint stood up, but frowned lightly. He raised a questioning eyebrow. Thomas stopped just in front of him, and softly placed the bucket on the floor.

               “You’re not going to sleep until you’re clean properly,” Thomas explained.

               Flint huffed, and pulled the linen over his head. He stood naked in front of his lover. Thomas wrung out the rag that had been in the bucket, and brought it to Flint’s chest. It was cold to the touch, causing Flint’s nipples to harden. Thomas brought his free hand to the small of Flint’s back to hold him in place.

               “Are you ashamed in front of him?” Thomas asked. He dragged the cloth over the long scar across Flint’s chest.

               “Beg pardon?”

               “Ordinarily, you appear quite fond of showing the full expanse of your freckled skin. Considering that, the way you went about washing yourself today, was quite the departure from your normal preference. Hence, my question.”

               “I was just cold.”

               “You haven’t been cold for weeks,” Thomas pointed out. No malice in his voice whatsoever.

               “It was chilly today.”

               “Are you cold now?”

               “No.”

               Flint swayed forward a little as Thomas brushed past a sensitive spot.

               “It’s alright,” Thomas assured. “I just thought that, like when sharing any cramped quarters, having spent so much time together at sea, you’d frequently seen each other in various states of undress.”

               Apparently satisfied with his work, Thomas handed Flint his shirt. Flint put it on passively, but did move in to receive Thomas’  kiss. He remained standing where he was for a few more minutes before he joined Thomas in bed.

 

***

 

The next day, John proposed he’d focus on the garden, while Thomas and Flint would tend to the orchard. That way, John laughed, they might get the afternoon off. Flint and Thomas laughed too.

               “In what kind of world have you been living that you get afternoons off?” Flint teased.

               “Perhaps it is not so much the world I live in,” Silver retaliated, “as the way I view it.”

               Flint grumbled, which earned him a kiss on the cheek from. Nevertheless, they did divide the tasks the way John had proposed. Flint followed Thomas into the orchard. Watched him tread through the long grass, the sun illuminating his light hair. They went to continue yesterday’s work, Thomas going up the ladder first.

               In all honesty, it wasn’t essential for someone to hold the ladder while the other was up there sawing off the branches. Just a measure of some extra care. It did mean, however, that the man at the bottom of the ladder didn’t have much to actually do.

               Flint’s eyes wandered up Thomas’s long, lean legs. They were so graceful. As they stood slightly spread apart, each braced against a stile for additional balance, Flint was afforded a good look of Thomas’s slender thighs too. Thomas leaned back to work on a branch that was almost out of reach, Flint brought up a hand to his leg to lend him support. Unconsciously, he rubbed circles with his thumb over the back of Thomas’ knee.

               “What are you doing?” Thomas laughed, looking over his shoulder. “That tickles. You’ll make me fall.”

               Flint ghosted his hand further up over Thomas’s leg. “Then you better come down here.”

               From above, Flint was regarded fondly, but with a mischievous smile that said ‘we really ought to continue working’. Regardless, Thomas descended. Flint leaned against the ladder with each arm grabbing one side. When Thomas was on the ground, and turned to face Flint, they were almost flush against each other.

               Flint placed a hand on Thomas’s hip, squeezed. He lay his chin on Thomas’s shoulder. Near his ear, he whispered: “I was just admiring your beauty, my sweet.” As his face was already so close, he could not resist kissing Thomas’ neck. Sweet innocent pecks at first, but changing to an open mouthed trail soon. He pressed his body forward to show Thomas just how much he admired his beauty.

               Thomas grabbed the back of Flint’s leg in response, and as his hand slid up, Flint moved in for a proper kiss. An open mouth was already awaiting him. In his eagerness Flint pushed Thomas back against the ladder. Their hands passionately grabbed and explored.

               Breaking the kiss, Flint sank to his knees. His hands already moving to open buttons.

               “James, wait,” Thomas giggled. “We have company. John could-”

               “I don’t care.” The gate was open, John could indeed walk in any moment without warning. Flint reached inside Thomas’s trousers to take out his cock. “If he takes offense, he can take his goddamn horse and disappear out of our fucking lives once more.”

               Thomas chuckled, and leaned back languidly. Flint did not lose any time teasing or endearing, instead taking in Thomas’s length whole.

               Around midday, Flint and Thomas left the orchard, still having spent several hours on taking care of their trees, and satisfied with their efforts. Flint looked about, trying to locate John. He took a few steps forward to get a better view between the rows of vegetables, thinking John might be obscured out of sight because he was kneeling there. He wasn’t. Where was he then? The wheat field? The house? The storage? The horse was still there, so he hadn’t left. Or had he?

               Thomas’ hand slipped around Flint’s wrist, holding him still. “Look,” he said softly, and pointed covertly.

               There he was. A few meters away from them, John Silver was seated inside the chicken coup, cradling a chicken in his arms, and seemingly whispering sweet nothings to it.

               Flint approached him.

               “The fuck are you doing?”

               “How old is this hen?” John asked.

               Flint shrugged. “We got some of them as adults. Could be a couple years old. Why?”

               John looked down at the bird again, stroked its feathers. The head only barely moved when John touched it. Quite a feat, having it sitting subdued in his arms this calm. Whenever Flint came near them, they would just scatter and run off. Even Thomas with his saintly patience could only get the birds to wearily tolerate his nearness.

               “You don’t know how to tell them apart?” John huffed.

               Flint wanted to protest, but got thrown off by Thomas joining them and slipping an arm around his waist.

               “Never mind,” John disregarded the matter. He turned the chicken upside down, and the critter allowed it without protest. “This one is not laying eggs. Look, if it were, I would be able to fit two fingers here.” He pressed one finger on a spot on the chicken’s belly. “I believe it to be because it is too old to lay.”

               “Hm,” Flint acknowledged.

               “ _Yes_ , you _can_ tell.” John stretched out one of the chicken’s legs. “First of all, it has grown spurs. Large ones at that. Only older hens have those. Additionally, the color of the comb has faded, and its feather coat has thinned out.”

               “So?” Flint asked.

               “ _So_ ,” John said, “you could wait to see if it starts laying again later. But the chance of that happening is small. More likely, you’ll just find it dead one day. Therefore I would suggest you kill it now, and make a feast of the meat.”

               Flint rubbed his chin, even absent a beard to stroke. He turned to Thomas.

               “What do you think?” he asked.

               “It will minimize the cost and maximize the yield,” Thomas said. “Sounds reasonable.”

               Flint nodded and went to the shed to get a small cage from there. It could barely fit two chickens, and was made for the purpose of transporting live animals to and from town, as well as keeping the ones that were soon to be eaten. As Flint presented the cage, John came out of the chicken coop. He placed the hen in the confinement. Only when it was already trapped there, did it slowly rise to inspect its surroundings.

               “She’s a sweet one,” John commented, with a degree of regret in his voice.

               “All things have their purpose to serve in the whole,” Thomas said, swaying close to John. “We’ve treated her well. It should make no difference if her end comes tomorrow, or two months from now.”

 

***

 

The three of them worked through the care of the wheat fields, and all in all they were finished around mid-afternoon. They brought the two wooden chairs and the footrest outside, mostly on Silver’s urging, and sat to enjoy the sun. As they hadn’t lunched yet, they opened another jar of peaches. Unfortunately, there was no bread. After last year’s harvest, they had miscalculated how much flour they would need, and by the time they ran out, it was too expensive to buy more. Better to stretch it with what they had in excess, until their new harvest could resupply them.

               When fruit jar was empty, Flint picked it up and started fiddling with it: circling the opening with his fingers; running his thump over the glass; softly drumming on it.

               “What is it, love?” Thomas asked.

               “The fences on the far end. The rain has been rotting the wood. I’m thinking I ought to go repair them.”

               John Silver gaped at Flint, incredulous. He looked toward Thomas, who said nothing, and then back to Flint.

               “You live in the middle of nowhere, what do you even need fences for?” John said.

               The question remained unanswered Flint put the jar down and went to gather the tools from the storage and some wood. John huffed and let himself slump back against the wall of the house.

               “Why didn’t you try to stop him?” he asked, when Flint had gone off to the far end of the grounds.

               Thomas smiled fondly. “It would have been no use. He gets this way when he is restless. By the time he comes back, he’ll either have resolved what was troubling him, or he’s ready to let someone in to help. Did he not do this when you were at sea together?”

               John stared off towards the horizon, towards the small figure busying himself in the distance. His beard and moustache drew together as he pressed his lips tight.

               “Perhaps. Although, the turmoil within never really got resolved.”

               “I can imagine.”

               John shook his head. He drew forward, gave Thomas a piercing stare. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”

               Thomas slowly turned his head, he blinked as if roused from deep thought.

               “I beg your pardon?”

               “I said:,” John repeated, the pitch of his voice raising, his body bending cat-like. “Why are you not angry with me? I took a man who called me friend, threw him in shackles, and delivered him to be enslaved for the rest of his days. More so, I left you there, while by all accounts, you were entirely undeserving of such a fate. All while it would have been in my power to get you out of there and reunite you with him some other way. Surely, you know this?”

               Thomas looked at the younger man and he felt himself smiling. A clever piece of oratory technique he demonstrated there. How he metaphorically drew his opponent’s sword, put it in their hand, bared his chest and asked: ‘why don’t you want to stab me?’. A bold strategy, certainly. Reckless, perhaps. Clever, definitely. 

               “Sense impressions,” Thomas began, “we share with cattle – and all other beings that can be said to have a body. Impulses, we share with wild beasts. Even mind and reason we hold in common with the most horrible and undisciplined of people. So, the defining characteristic of a good person, is to love and embrace whatever happens to him, or her, along his thread of fate.”

               John blinked stupidly.

               “Marcus Aurelius, book three,” Thomas supplemented. “There are many more paragraphs where he speaks about how nothing harms you, unless you choose to let it harm you.”

               John blew out his breath through his teeth.

               “And you believe this?”

               “I live by it,” Thomas said simply.

               He felt John’s scrutinizing eyes on him. Trying to see through him, trying to measure if there was any chance at all that he was being truthful. Thomas sat back and allowed it. He rather enjoyed the feeling. Back in London, when he still frequently met new people, talked about his beliefs to them, this stunned skepticism was the frame of his life. He thought, perhaps, he even missed it a little.

               “How did you even get out of there?” John asked.

               Thomas purged his lips, tapped his fingers on the empty chair beside him. “Even for Mr. Oglethorpe, housing one of the most feared pirate captains of the West-Indies was quite the curiosity.” Thomas paused for a breath. “What started with trying to see the man behind the stories, ended with lending James his ear. When James started talking about how he’d wanted to remake the New World, make it such that it was truly new, what kind of social order he’d envisioned for it…” Thomas bit his lip while a smile was threatening to break through. “Soon, Mr. Oglethorpe started believing in this vision. I must admit I played my part in it too. Although at the time I wasn’t quite aware there was a purpose to these talks. Until one day, he told us we’re free to go - for his intent was to focus on a new venture. He wanted to employ the influence of his brother, a Parliamentarian with humanitarian inclinations, to start a colony. A colony where justice would be based on fairness and merit, not suppressive old world conventions.”

               “My god,” John gasped. From the shimmer in his eye and the way his chest puffed up, Thomas gathered there was a whole lot more John wanted to say about the subject. But John contained himself. “Do you think there’s any chance that will actually come to pass?”

               “I’d say a much better chance now that there won’t ever be any whispers of the names Hamilton or Flint near it.”

               John grinned as if he had just been told a particularly dirty joke that had redeemed itself in the end by having a clever twist. After that, he sank into silence, micro-expressions playing over his face.

               A fly landed on Thomas’ leg. He waved it away.

               “He’s been different since you’ve been here,” he said.

               “Sorry?” John began. “If you’re suggesting you want me to leave-”

               “No, no,” Thomas interrupted. “I hold you to no account. I can see you’ve made no effort to disturb him. I was just sharing an observation.”

               “What have you observed, then?”

               “He’s been cussing more, for one,” Thomas said, with some amusement. “But he’s also more restless. More reserved.”

               Thomas let the words hang in the air, watched how they impacted John, waited to hear how he might respond. The silence swelled.

               “Careful in a way,” Thomas continued, “as if he is afraid he might accidentally pull the one stick from a beaver’s dam that will make the whole thing come apart.”

               John flexed his fingers around his crutch. “Would it?”

               “I am not going anywhere,” Thomas said.

               The horizon was now empty, Flint having disappeared behind the rows of waving wheat. John was scratching his crutch through the hardened sand, eroding it till he’d created a track. His muscles were tense under his shirt. Eventually, the scraping turned to fiddling. Finally John let he crutch slip from his hands and returned his eyes to the horizon.

               “Perhaps you could help me understand something,” Thomas raised.

               Cautiously, John looked at Thomas. “What?”

               “After all these years, why now?”

               John sighed. Pressed the heel of his hand against his eye and rubbed.

               “When I made the choice to remove him from my life, I did so because I saw no other way to stop the bloodshed, to ensure that we wouldn’t all be _dead_ the moment we’d gathered enough momentum for England to truly show its teeth.” John flexed his jaw. “And then, when I told him you were alive, I thought he became someone else entirely. I thought the person with whom I’d become so close, was gone.”

               Thomas considered the words, considered the manner in which John had expressed them. They weren’t a lie, not exactly. Though, there was a deeper layer to them, one that Thomas was quite sure John had omitted. He decided to press on.

               “That doesn’t answer my question.”

               Again, John sighed. “Madi and I have been talking about moving to England, building a real life. From there, the journey would be costly and long. It occurred to me, that this fact might mean I will never find myself back on this side of the ocean.” John paused to take a deep breath. “I… I couldn’t commit to such a thing feeling matters were left unfinished between him and I.”     

 

***

 

John already had the bridle of the horse in his hand, ready to mount and leave. Flint dropped his gardening tools and rose to his feet, not even remembering what he had been doing.

               “Where are you going?” he asked, voice raspy.

               “To town,” John said, squeezing his eyes to slits as the sun was shining in his face. “There are some things I want to purchase.”

               The manner in which the words rolled off his tongue, the way he looked even more toward the sun and let his face draw up in reflex, it had a dramatic flair, an artificial quality. Flint’s hand shot out to the bridle of the horse.

               “Where are you really going?”

               John took a step forward. Stared up at Flint with that determined, insolent stare he had. After a moment he huffed and cast his eyes to the floor. When he drew them back up, his expression was open.

               “I am going to town,” he reiterated. “And I intend to make some purchases. But there is also something else I must do.”

               “What?”

               “When I came here,” John began, “I brought a small group of trusted men with me. I stationed them in town. Told them to come looking for me if I didn’t return in three days’ time. Thought I should ensure them I am unharmed, and make sure to throw them off your scent.”

               Flint felt the blood rushing to his head.

               “Who did you bring? Hands?”

               “No, of course not Israel Hands,” John retorted, raising his voice to match Flint’s. He took a break and a breath. Continued calmer. “They’re some people that Madi has worked with for a long time. They’re reliable, obedient. They’re discreet.” John took his thumb off the leather and touched it over Flint’s hand. “Please, I _am_ being careful.”

               Peripherally, Flint saw Thomas approaching. He dropped his hand to his side, nodded, and smiled. He looked at John standing in front of him. The shiny dark curls falling free around his head. The bushy beard that covered half his face. The long necklaces of carved and painted wooden beads. The earrings fitted with large gemstones, carrying an almost womanly appearance. The brightly embroiled shirt, with no proper coat.

               “If you are being careful,” Flint said, his voice calm and warm now, “you shouldn’t go looking like this. You’ll draw attention.”

               John huffed. “Hate to remind you, but I’ll be drawing attention anyway.” He slapped his hand against his half-leg, illustrating his point.

               “I am talking about the harmful sort of attention,” Flint continued. “Your current appearance, suggests something about the sort of profession you might have. The sort of people you associate with.”

               “James…,” Thomas gently scolded.

               “Did you go through town looking like this when you came here?” Flint pressed on.

               “We came under the cover of night.”

               “James, please, let’s not make a fuss,” Thomas pled. “He’s not doing anything wrong. We’re not doing anything wrong. There is nothing to worry about.”

               “No, this matters, Thomas,” Flint insisted.  “If he looks suspicious, that may lead to scrutiny. And what do you think happens if someone recognizes him or me, because of that?”

               “He’s right,” John conceded, before Thomas could say anything else. He went to unclip his earrings. “What else?”

               Flint huffed. “Let’s start with your beard.” He didn’t move from his place, however, before turning to Thomas. “Will you be alright here?”

               “I can shave myself,” John cut in, hurriedly.

               Thomas laughed good-naturedly, brushing his dirt-stained hands on his breeches. “I don’t doubt that,” he supplied, “but without a mirror the result might work towards the opposite of what we want to achieve.”

               “You… don’t have a mirror?” John asked, his gaze passing between Thomas and Flint. Then, he nodded.

               “I’ll be fine, love,” Thomas said. Then he turned to John, amusement in his eyes: “Don’t be afraid, he’s gentle.”

               John rolled his eyes, but hobbled after Flint regardless. Flint was faster though. By the time Silver arrived, Flint had already put a chair, a razor, and a basin filled with water outside. Flint waited as John sat down. Afforded him every opportunity to start the preparatory work himself, but John just sat there, holding Flint with his eyes. So Flint saw his hand moving to the basin. Saw it happening, much more so than that he ordered it to happen, as if the hand was possessed by an external spirit. Saw his other hand joining too. The two of them reaching for the cloth in the basin, wringing it out, and rubbing it up with soap.

               By the time he was bringing the soapy cloth to John’s face, he was in control again. And he was careful. Only touching the material to John’s beard lightly. Only placing a hand on the base of John’s neck, when it became clear it was absolutely necessary to hold him in place. Only placing the very tips of his fingers on John’s cheek, when it became necessary to angle his face. Constantly afraid of being overbearing.

               But John gave no sign of discomfort. His eyes followed Flint’s hands on suite, but held no suspicion. He bared his neck willingly for Flint to wield the razor over the sensitive skin. When Flint brushed a few stray locks behind John’s ear to reach the part where his jaw rose up to meet his cheek, John smiled with the same joy as when he’d first seen the tree blossoms.

               Flint brought the razor to John’s throat, who once again exposed the flesh willingly.

               “You putting a knife against my throat, that sure has been a while,” John drawled. “I’d almost say it brings back fond memories.”

               Not wanting to give into John’s playfulness, but being amused nevertheless, Flint smirked.

               Continuing his task, his fingers grew more certain, pressing firmer into skin that became ever smoother. When he cut away the last hairs, he held John’s chin in his hand as if they did this every day. He beheld John’s clean-shaven face with a fond a smile.

               The awareness of the situation came back to him, and he drew a breath. When had he moved to stand in between John’s legs? When had John’s face come to be so close to his body? Surely, this arrangement was far to cramped to have properly conducted the act of shaving in?

               Flint looked down at John, and John looked back with so much _something_ in his eyes. Flint felt it passing between them. _Something_. He sank to his knees, surrendering all thoughts. And still, their eyes held.

               “What are you doing?” John asked breathlessly.

               Flint blinked, found he had no clear answer for that. Surely, though, there was a reason for why he found himself in this position, kneeling in front of John Silver. He looked around, as if there would be answers in the sand or the heavens themselves. His eyes got caught on John’s hand.

               “Your rings, they too need to go,” he said.

               He took John’s hand, and gently slipped the rings off his fingers one by one, taking extra careful with those that were lodged tight.

               “I’ll hold onto these for you.”

               After a moment’s hesitation, he also moved to take off John’s necklaces. John smiled reflexively and also gave him the earrings he’d held in his hand all that time. Flint turned and went to take the jewelry inside. He placed in a bowl. He stared at the small collection, until he heard the tapping of John’s crutch behind him.

               John hoovered at the doorpost, while Flint rummaged through the small house. Even with his back turned towards John, Flint knew John was watching him – wondering, probably, what it was that he was doing. Inside a small box, he found it. The small strip of black cloth.

               “Is that… mine?” John asked, when Flint brought it to him.

               Flint nodded slowly, momentarily casting his eyes down. “I slipped it from your hair in the carriage.”

               John appeared astonished. “I didn’t even notice that I’d lost it until I was back at the ship.”

               Flint shoved it into John’s hand. Stepped away. Turning his back.

               John made a step forward. “I… I’m sorry.”

               Flint frowned, turning his head to look at John over his shoulder.

               “For what?”

               John sighed. Took another step closer. “For… what I did. For… not thinking of a better way. I am sorry for taking you prisoner. I am sorry for achieving my outcome by force. And I am so sorry for destroying what you believed in.”

               Flint turned around, wanted to fall forward and lock John in his arms. He could see the naked emotion on John’s face, see he meant the words. He could see John’s vulnerability, and that, especially without his beard, made him look so, so young. It made Flint’s heart ache. Yet, he remained where he stood.

               “I too, am sorry,” he managed to squeeze out. “I should not have said… what I did. I-”

               “It’s okay,” John said, closing the distance between them and placing a hand on Flint’s arm.

               They held each other’s eyes again, and now understanding passed between them. For a moment, it felt just like the old times. The days on the ship. The days on Maroon Island. Nassau.

               Flint smiled melancholically. Holding up his hand to signal John to wait. He disappeared into the bedroom.

               “This will be a little large for you, but it will help you blend in,” Flint said when he emerged.

               John reached out and curled his hand around the cloth that was held out before him.

               “Is this yours?” he asked.

               Flint nodded, and proceeded to help John into the coat. He had good reason to do so, he told himself, because in the past he had seen John struggle to put on a coat while standing. Never mind that being years ago, and John having demonstrated a greater aptness with his crutch in all other areas.

               Flint’s hands lingered on John’s shoulders after he’d slid the coat in place. And this time, he saw it happening, John swaying, starting to lean into him.

               “James?” It was Thomas entering the house.

               The moment shattered. John stood up straight, putting distance between them. Flint’s hands dropped to his sides.

               “What is it, my sweet?” he said, making his way to Thomas.

               “The air is getting heavy,” Thomas  said. “If John still wants to go to town, I suggest he leaves sooner rather than later.”

               Flint stuck his head out through the door, peered up at the sky. It was an endless, cloudless blue. But Thomas was right, the air did have an oppressive quality. And they were still south enough that the rain would come as a storm.

               John squeezed himself past Flint and Thomas, out of the house.

               “I will,” he said. “I have bad memories of storms.”

 

***

 

Thomas finished the knot and pulled hard on the loose end, making it the ropes pull tight. Dark clouds ominously hung in the sky. They made it look as oppressing as the air felt. Thomas stood back and looked at their work.

               “This should do it, don’t you think?” he asked.

               Flint stepped forward. Pulled on the knots. Pulled on the branches they’d tied together.

               “Let’s do one more around the entire thing,” he replied.

               One time, around the same moment in the year – when they’d just pruned the trees and had the branches lying around – there had been a storm that had blown one of the branches up into the air, and landed it on the house’s roof. The force had been so great it had knocked through the roof and had come crashing down into the house. Although the rain following its path indoors, and the effort and cost of repairing the roof, were unwelcome, the real shock of had been something hitting Thomas’s head. All that Flint remembered was Thomas suddenly being on the floor, and there being a lot of blood. A lot. He had rushed over, believing then that Thomas would surely die – believing his luck was irreversibly bad, and had followed him down here as well. Believing that this act of happy domesticity had to come to an end, because he had never deserved such a good thing to begin with. Of course, it had been nothing so wicked. Thomas had lost his footing more due to the unexpected blow, than the force of the impact. The wound he had was but small and shallow. Head wounds always bleed like the gushing sea.

               Still, Flint would rather avoid such an incident a second time. So he wove the rope in an intricate pattern around and through the pile of wood, tied the best knots he knew, and double checked all of them.

               Thomas leaned back against the bundle, peered up at the sky.

               “He craves it, you know.”

               “Hmm?” Flint responded, still fussing with the rope, as of yet not realizing what Thomas was referring to.

               Only when Thomas remained silent, did he turn his head to look at his lover. And Thomas gave him that look. _The_ look.

               Flint stopped what he was doing, holding still as an animal caught in the night.

               “Thomas, you are enough for me,”  he said. “And you always will be.”

               Thomas smiled, kindly. The smile was full of love.

               “I know that. And I am not questioning it. This is something different.”

               “You’re wrong,” Flint blurted.

                “About what, my love?” Thomas said, gently. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve talked to him about why he came here. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to articulate it yet. Perhaps he doesn’t dare ask for it. But he wants it. And he wants you to give it to him.”

               Flint backed himself further into the pile of wood. The first drop of rain fell down from the sky. It fell on Flint’s forehead, and slid slowly downward.

               “And I’ve seen the way you look at him. The way you are both afraid to touch him, and are unable to stop once you start. I know what unsatisfied desire looks like on you, my dear, because I’ve seen you fall in love with Miranda, I’ve seen you fall in love with me.”

               In his mind’s eye, Flint saw himself falling to his knees. Saw the tears streaming down his cheeks as the sky above broke open with a crack of thunder. But reality was just a shadow of that. Reality was just Flint standing there, frozen, looking horrified, with a few lonely  drops of rain falling down on him.

               Thomas approached him. Flint stared at him with confusion. It was an awareness just like the moment before Thomas had first kissed him: the realization that your entire world might be about to shift, and questioning whether you’re ready for it. And just like the first time they kissed, Thomas wrapped his hand around Flint’s neck and brought their lips together.

               “I love you,” Thomas whispered, and the sky began to weep. “That is what matters most of all.”

 

***

 

Flint looked at the chicken nervously circling in its cage. The other chickens were locked up in a fenced off area of the storage room. He studied how the bird bobbed its head, how it hobbled on its feet. He did so mostly, to be able to defend that he wasn’t _only_ staring at the rain-soaked window in hopes of seeing John return. A window that through a combination of unclear glass and heavy rain did not afford any view to the road to begin with.

               As the sound of Thomas cutting vegetables bled into Flint’s consciousness, he became aware the amount of time that had passed had escaped him. Self-aware, he got up from his seat and began making a fire. Although Flint was used to being able to start a fire with ease, today it gave him trouble. Up to six times he put a flickering flame to a stick, just to see it die out again before it could spread. Only at the seventh attempt did flame turn to fire.

               A rattling sound on the window pane made Flint jerk to the side. Winds were picking up and throwing small sticks and pebbles on the glass. It hadn’t been john announcing his return by tapping on the window.

               “Shit!” Flint cursed when he looked back at his work. His foot must have hit one of the logs when he got distracted. Now the entire construction had fallen apart. The more flammable bedding he’d put within lay spread out wide through the fireplace.

               Thomas joined him by his side. Without saying a word, he placed a hand on Flint’s shoulder. His thumb rubbed circles. With every turn, Flint felt a muscle relaxing, felt an ounce of strength returning, felt a cloud of fog lifting from his mind. After a moment, he placed a kiss on Thomas’s forearm. The fire was burning high soon after.

               The water in the cooking pot was boiling when the door swung open. John Silver stepped inside, swung a heavy basket down from his back, and slammed the door. Immediately, a puddle started forming at his feet.

               “Should have left sooner yet,” Silver grumbled. “Not a piece of me that is dry now.”

               That was the way it often was at sea as well. With the constant spray of water, and the leaking, and the simple fact that ships were small floating pieces of dead tree in an endless ocean, it was hard to keep dry. Flint wondered if Silver had come to hate it as much as he did.

               “I’ll give you a spare set of clothes,” Thomas said, leading Silver into the bedroom. “They’ll be too big for you, but at least they’ll be dry.”

               Thomas left Silver in the bedroom to change. A moment later the man emerged from the room, curls still dripping, and a belt firmly tied around his waist to keep up the ill-fitting breeches.

               “Your bookshelf,” Silver began. “I noticed it only has _Utopia_ on it.”

               Flint looked at Silver somewhat apologetically, but also with some judgment. Thomas stared at his guest with questions in his eyes.

               “A situation I thought ought to be rectified,” Silver said. He went over to the basket and opened it. The inside was now lined with what appeared to be a piece of an old sail. He got out Flint’s coat, presumably stuffed in there to keep the contents dry. He fuzzed around in the basket for a bit, and then brought up a stack of five books.

               Flint’s jaw nearly dropped as he moved over to the table to inspect them.

               “Shakespeare’s sonnets, and Dekker’s Old Fortunatus,” Silver said, picking up two of the books. “The other three volumes are of more inconsequential writers. It’s the best I could do for now.”

               “This is…,” Flint mumbled. “Thank you.”

               “Don’t waste all your breath just yet,”  Silver said. “There is more.”

               “More books?” Flint asked, a little dazed.

               “No, not more books. More something else.”

               Flint and Thomas exchanged a look. With two hands John reached inside the basket. And up it came, stretching its little claws out as it was lifted through the air.

               “This ought to help you with your rodent problem. Well, she’ll have to grow a bit more first, but I swear, then there won’t be a mouse which dares to nibble on your wheat.”

               Silver placed the striped kitten on the table. Its blue eyes were open wide, mistrustful of the world’s ability to stay level. After a moment, she blinked and started walking over the table, now a happy explorer.

               “What do you think?” Silver asked.

               Thomas stood frozen in space, a half-cut tomato in his hand. There was a look of slight horror on his face, barely hidden behind a mask of decency.

               “Thomas?” Flint inquired.

               “Should I-?” Silver asked as he reached for the kitten.

               “No,” Thomas said. He pulled out a chair and sat down on it, placing the tomato in front of him on the table.

               “It is adorable,” Thomas said, uncertainty audible in his voice. “Can I… hold her?”

               “Of course,” Silver confirmed. “She’s yours.”

               With the greatest care, Thomas scooped the little creature off the table, and placed it on his lap. Again, the first moment, the thing was a little startled. A moment later however, it put her paws up against Thomas’ stomach – looking upward to see where this person-mountain was going. Thomas laughed, a little nervously. Then, he brought his hand down and petted the little head. The kitten promptly responded, twisting and turning her neck to stroke Thomas’  hand with just the right spot. A smile broke on Thomas’ face.

               “She’s adorable,” he repeated.

               Satisfied with that response, Silver reached into the basket again.

               “The remaining gifts are of a more practical nature,” he said. “A bag of wheat, so you may have bread during the period before the harvest.” He brought up a plate, bowl, cup and cutlery. “Some supplies that will make receiving guests easier in the future. And this also falls into that category,” he said as he pulled out a mirror. “And finally, something to keep us warm and entertained on this stormy day.” A bottle of liquor was placed on the table.

               “How did you get all this?” Flint asked. “You didn’t steal it, did you?”

               “No,” John replied, a little cross. “I paid for it.”

               “How?”

               “With money and goods of worth. Why, is there a new method of payment I am not aware of?”

               “No, of course not,” Flint said. “I meant: how can you afford this?”

               John sighed. “Madi and I have sufficient resources to live comfortably.”

               “How?”

               John sighed again. He looked toward Thomas, whose expression was open and free of judgement. John pulled out the other chair.

               “In the weeks after… you were no longer involved, things changed drastically,” John said, while he kept glancing at Thomas. “Although there was no war against civilization, a smaller, more essential victory was won. Woodes Rogers was sentenced to prison for his debts.” He took a breath before continuing: “Consequently, Jack finalized a deal with the Guthrie family to purchase Nassau. Since then, piracy has flourished once again in Nassau, and the Maroon camp has stood to gain.”

               Flint blinked. Outside, the wind swelled, making a howling noise. “There is a Guthrie again in Nassau?”

               “No.”

               “Then who?”

               “Mr. Featherstone functions as governor.”

               “Jack’s Featherstone?”

               “Yes,” Silver said. Again shooting a look to Thomas. “I’m sorry, are you saying no news of Nassau has reached you? At all?”      

               Flint stared at the floor. With one hand he pulled on the fingers of the other. A half-hearted attempt to crack his knuckles.

               “I suppose Mr. Oglethorpe knew, but kept it from us to avoid stirring up passions,” Thomas said. “And after that, well, the point of this place was to be away from the world.”

               “You said Featherstone _functions_ as governor,” Flint cut in. “Who is pulling his strings?”

               “Ehm…” Silver looked apologetically toward Thomas. “Max.”

               Flint frowned. “Eleanor’s friend? The woman you conspired with to sell the Urca map?”

               “Eh, yes, her. I could swear, however, that once upon a time they were something other than friends.” Silver said this with such innuendo in his voice there was no doubt as to his meaning.

               Flint huffed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

               “Are things… well in Nassau?”

               “I haven’t been there for quite some time, but I hear good things,” Silver confirmed.

               Nodding, Flint took a step back. He sought Thomas’s eyes, and upon finding them, for the first time in a long time, he did not find assurance there. Instead, he spotted distress. Flint straightened his shoulders, stood to rise to his full height.

               “Your men. Have you managed to divert your men?”

               “Yes.”

               “Are you certain of that?” Flint pressed.

               “Yes.”

               “How did you divert them?”

               Silver groaned. “I’m sorry, I do not believe I need to justify myself to you. Not anymore.”

               “It is not that,” Flint said, stepping forward. With his eyes he was pleading for John’s understanding. “You once said to me, you wanted to have a life with Madi. I want to have a life with Thomas. But with the things we did, all of us, that can only be as long as we take great care to be invisible. I believe we were in agreement of that much before you left to town.”

               John placed his elbow on the table, and buried his face in his palm.

               “I am aware of  how dangerous it is for me to be here, for me to have come looking for you,” John admitted. “The reason I came back soaking wet, the reason I didn’t make it back before the storm, is because I took the greatest care to convince my men that I had not yet found you. I did this, even though I know they are loyal, and they wouldn’t think about investigating behind my back. I told them I would be continuing my search North of the town, and rode out in that direction. I took a detour of nearly two hours to hide that I was truly returning here.” He finally looked up, and his eyes were glassy. “I do not want to disrupt your life here. I stayed away for years because I want nothing more than for you to have this. But I could do it no more. You have meaning in my life.”

               The wind roared. With an angry howl it threw a rock through the window. The kitten was frightened off Thomas’  lap by that, and Thomas threw up his hands as if burned. Unforgiving of people’s sentiments, rain and small debris started blowing in through the broken window.

               “Shit!” Flint cursed, before spurting to action.

***

 

Thomas threw the last batch of scattered debris on the pile they’d made at the edge of their land. Flint’s attention was caught when Thomas remained standing there, staring at the pile of rubbish.  He put aside his rake and walked over to Thomas. He stood beside him quietly, also staring at the pile. Somewhere behind them, John was putting the chickens back in the coop.

               “I think I’m going to town, to see if anyone needs any help,” Thomas said.

               A thing that was to be expected from Thomas. However, Flint was thrown by the smug way in which he said it. The man had a smile on his face that read as if he’d just done something naughty, and was proud of it. In fact, it was almost an exact copy of the face Thomas had pulled that time years ago when he’d crept through the hallways to sneak into Flint’s room when they were staying at the estate of Lord so-and-so, a particularly boring associate of Thomas. Right after he’d closed the door behind him, he’d stood there looking smug like that.

               “Thomas, if you do not tell me what you are planning, I will find out some other way.”

               Grinning, Thomas said: “I’m not planning anything, but I’m hoping you are.”

               Thomas was looking gorgeous in the sun, shining with pride and mischief. Flint was a little stumped.

               “If you want something from me, all you need to do is ask,” Flint said.

               “It’s not me who wants something.”

               Flint must have been looking at him with utter bewilderment at that point, for Thomas put a hand on Flint’s shoulder. He smiled reassuringly, but then his gaze slipped to John who was lowering the last of the chickens back into their proper place.

               “Don’t be ashamed,” Thomas said, stroking Flint’s cheek. He kissed his forehead and wandered off.

               “I’m going to town!” he shouted to John from some way off.

               John looked up from his work, the sun hitting his face, forcing him into a smile. “Take the horse, it’ll be quicker.”

               “Thank you,” Thomas said.

               And so Thomas went to take the horse, which had gotten through the storm unharmed. Before he took off, Flint warned him several times to mind the debris that must surely be on the road. And then he was gone, leaving Flint and John alone. Flint watched John’s limbs move and stretch as he checked if the poles of the coop were still properly dug in.

               From inside, Flint got the cage with the captured chicken. He brought it outside and gently placed it down. John’s blue eyes trailed toward it.

               “Are you ready to kill her?” Flint asked.

               John looked to the caged bird and then to Flint. Now that Thomas was no longer around, serving as a shield, Flint felt a certain unease at being under John’s gaze. It made his body tingle. It made him have to make an effort to keep still.

               “Are you implying you’re putting that job entirely in my hands?”

               “No,” Flint said, “I’m implying that lacking a cone, this will be easier as a two man job, thus requiring your active participation.”

               John huffed. “Do you think I’ve suddenly become squeamish?”

               “You seem rather fond of these chickens,” Flint pointed out.

               “And was I not the one who suggested killing her?” Silver retorted, proudly positioning his hands on his hips. “I once worked as a cook on your ship, remember? I’ve killed animals I kept close quarters with for weeks.”

               “Hmhm.” Flint stroked his chin. “I find myself trying _not_ to remember your terrible food.”

               “Hey!” John protested, and prodded Flint’s side.

               In turn Flint shoved John’s shoulder. Lightly, to make sure the other wouldn’t fall. But John held his own easily, his crutch not even moving to keep him balanced. He immediately launched into a counter attack, throwing his full weight against Flint. Flint stumbled, but re-found his footing. Grinning,  Flint again shoved John’s shoulder, a little rougher this time. To compensate, John hopped sideways,  crutch and leg making little taps on the floor. Once, twice… The third one the crutch caught on a pebble, and John went down.

               Quick as a cat, Flint reacted. His arm shot out and caught John around his lower back. From there, he lifted him back to his vertical position.

               “Careful there,” Flint said. “If you don’t watch out, you might trip.”

               John laughed breathlessly. His fingers trailing over Flint’s arm.

               “Where would I be without you to rescue me?”

               Flint still had his hand on John’s back. He spread his fingers out, effectively maximizing his claim on that warm body. At that moment, it did not matter that it was a ridiculous thing to say. It did not matter that the role of damsel in distress hardly fitted John, that Flint did not keep the company of damsels in distress, that John probably rescued him more often than the other way around. All that mattered was that face looking up at him. Those curls swaying in the gentle breeze. The heat in the palms of his hands. The heat under his skin.

               “So, we kill the chicken, then?” John said, his voice about an octave lower than would have been suitable for the content.

               The air was heavy. Almost too heavy to breath. Or was that Flint’s mind playing tricks on him?

               “Yes,” he rasped. The one word was a piece of driftwood. Something floating at the surface of this ocean which was threatening to drown him. He had to swim toward it, and hold on to it to get out of there. Slowly, he slipped his hand from John’s back.

               “I’ll get the knife,” Flint said.

               Indoors, the small cat was resting in John’s chair. Sleeping, or so it had appeared. When Flint entered, it opened its eyes, and when Flint went back outside with the knife, he had to watch out for the little critter darting between his feet.

               John had set up a large wooden log. He had taken the distressed chicken out of its cage, now doing his best to calm it down. That way it would be easier to kill. Flint offered the haft of the knife to John, who pulled a questioning face.

               “Not squeamish, were you?” he pressed.

               John took the knife and pushed the chicken towards Flint. Flint took the bird by the head and the legs. Immediately, it started furiously flapping its wings, trying to get away. Its limited strength, however, was no match for Flint’s. And so, Flint stretched it out, with its neck over the log. He waited for it to calm down – or at the very least, until it had given up on the idea that it could fight its way out of this.

               John brought the knife up into the air, his muscles rolling under his shirt. He brought the knife down. Blood splattered out of the cut. Flint instinctively closed his eyes when the warm fluid hit his face. When he opened them again, he saw the same stains painting John’s neck, John’s face.

               “Shit!” John cursed. And slowly, as if drunk, Flint followed John’s eyes down. The knife had only made a wound. The head was still attached to the body, and the animal was struggling violently in Flint’s grip.

               For a second time, John lifted the knife. Again, the blood splattered up.

               This time when Flint opened his eyes, he was no longer at an insignificant farm in some anonymous corner of the New World. He was in Nassau, at the moment-supreme. He was holding his sword – hard and heavy in his hand. In his periphery he saw a movement. A man clad in red. He lifted his weapon just in time to block the attack. He withdrew, and with the next swing he was in the offense. Once, twice, thrice, his opponent managed to block him, and then metal hit flesh. As the redcoat grabbed his wounded arm, Flint delivered the killing blow, penetrating his opponent’s chest deep. In that moment of death-stained ecstasy, when he drew his sword free, he looked about for his next opponent. And there he saw John Silver ferociously fighting beside him. Using every technique, every edge Flint had taught him, and more. He too, drew blood soon enough. Receiving the splatter onto his skin proudly. John was beautiful when he killed. And Flint, Flint felt a godly power surging through his veins. He wondered, did John feel that too?

               And then in a blink of an eye, he was back at the farm. He was staring into John’s eyes. There was a good deal more blood on John’s face than there had been before. His hands were stained with it too. And he was beautiful that way, covered in red and not afraid. Powerful. Powerfully alluring.

               There were people who believed in nature gods. Gods who would kill and then fertilize again. Gods who took blood sacrifices. Gods to whom prayers were of a carnal nature. In that moment, John was such a god. And Flint wanted nothing more than to throw aside the sacrifice, step over the log, and push John down into the sand to complete the ritual.

               “…Flint?”

               “Hmm?” The name called him from his musings. No one called him that anymore these days.

               “I said this knife is blunt as horse dung,” John repeated. “…Is something the matter?”

               The chicken was dead. The cat was playing with one of the feathers that had fluttered to the ground. Flint took the knife from John, and mumbled: “I’ll take care of it.” What else could he do?

               He took the knife inside, and placed it on the table, no clue what to do with it. He sat down and rubbed a hand through his hair. The jumble in his mind wouldn’t take the shape of coherent thoughts. He peered at the bottle John had brought in the night before.  A good large gulp of that would make him feel better now. He shouldn’t, though.

               A fly landed on his cheek. He brought up his hand to brush it off. Bringing it back down, it was adorned with a  vaguely reddish smear. That brought an idea to his mind.

               He retrieved the necessary item from the storage room. Brushed aside the ashes in the fireplace. He gathered wood from the shack to get a fire going. When he walked to the well, with two buckets at a time, John started glancing at him. He had pulled up a second log, on which he was seated while plucking the dead bird. On Flint’s second trip to the well, he brought John a knife. A different one from before. This one was actually sharp. This was the one Flint had brought to the door that first night when John arrived.

 

***

 

Flint took the bucket off the hook above the fire, and poured its contents into the tub. He dragged his hand through it. With the new load of hot water, the temperature was just about right.

               “What are you doing?” John asked, finally coming inside. He slapped the chicken, now devoid of feathers, neck, feet and intestines, on the table.

               “I thought after this, you might desire a wash.” Flint pulled his hand from the water and stood up, smiling. “When is the last time you had a proper bath?”

               By his estimates, John must have left a few weeks ago to find him. At sea, fresh water was always in short supply. The John Silver Flint knew wouldn’t take away from that to draw himself a bath. And after that, well, he must have been moving about, probably too set upon doing what he came for.

               John loomed over the edge of the tub, as if he was peering down a cliff to scale how deep the drop was without getting close enough to risk falling in. He lifted his head, cheeky smirk plastered on his face.

               “Are you suggesting I smell bad?” he said, ‘captain’  barely suppressed at the end of the sentence.

               Flint stepped into John’s space, and looked down at him over his nose. His voice came out raspy and rough: “Mister Silver, there is nothing amiss with your scent. However, if you would decline a perfectly good opportunity for a warm bath to in favor of walking around covered in blood, I do feel forced to bring into question your judgement.” Flint looked at John’s lips, no longer obscured by black hairs, before drawing his gaze up to meet John’s eyes.

               “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Silver replied. He drew out a chair from the table, and fell back onto it. Without breaking eye contact, he peeled off his boot. Then, he began pulling his shirt out of his pants, still keeping his daring gaze trimmed on Flint.

               It occurred to Flint John might sit there and look him right in the eye while stripping bare. He paced away to fetch the washcloth and soap, taking the opportunity to thoroughly inspect the wood of the shelf they had been resting on. Couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t rotting or infected by termites. Upon his return he placed the items on the thigh high wall of the fireplace, within arm’s reach of the tub, without sparing another glance to his friend. Taking  one of the buckets, Flint went outside to the well once more. His heart was hammering in his chest, his hands gripped the rough stone of the well’s edge. After a moment, he noticed the pain and let go.

               He took the full bucket back inside. John was seated in the tub, emerged in water from mid-thigh to belly button. The tub wasn’t very large, but John was a short man, he could fit himself in it reasonably well. He didn’t have to draw his legs up as tight to his body, or sit up as straight, as Flint, or dear Lord, Thomas, had to when taking a bath. John’s face was already clean. He was busying himself with washing the blood off his limbs.

               Flint placed his bucket a meter or two away from the tub. Crouching down, he began washing his forearms.  The blood thinned and dripped off when it was touched by the water. Soon, only an orange hue was left that needed to be cleaned by further scrubbing. John cast him a short glance, but otherwise focused on himself. Once Flint believed he had cleaned the blood off his hands sufficiently, he pulled the hem of his shirt free of his breeches. He also undid the fastenings. Reaching in through the opening, he washed his neck, shoulders, chest, upper arms and armpits.  All the while, sneaking furtive glances to John.

               With the life they had both lived, it was a miracle John’s toned body bore so few scars. The ones Flint spotted now, were the ones he recognized from before. There were two, one on John’s arm and one on his ribcage, that were from the Nassau fights. Flint had treated those wounds himself. The doctor and his assistants had been occupied with the more severely wounded, and Madi hadn’t arrived at the scene yet. So instead of letting John struggle with the bandages alone, Flint had lent a hand. He’d talked sword fighting techniques and how John could improve his further to avoid being wounded like this in the future. That however, was only a necessary discussion to draw their attention away from Flint’s hands scooting over John’s warm flesh.

               He couldn’t deny it any more now: today hadn’t been the first time he’d had compromising thoughts about John. That day too, he had so wanted to continue his gentle caresses when the wounds were bound. Flint had wanted to reach into John’s breeches and draw out the other man’s dick. Gently coax an orgasm out of him, while holding him near, and telling him how good he’d done. And there had been other times too. Dueling, he had reached a point where he’d wanted to throw their swords aside, lower John into the sand of the dunes and make sweet love to him. When he had just killed Hornigold during the battle on Maroon island and was high on power. Oh, how he’d wanted to row across that lake – swim if he had to – and drag John into the nearest hut to fuck him hard and fierce until neither of them had strength left to get up. Then there had been more vague and timeless thoughts that had plagued him too: Holding John in his arms, as the ship gently swung the hanging cot in his cabin. Imagining how John’s curls would feel tickling against his stomach. Feeling invisible ropes pull on him to get closer to John when they were near, and another set pulling him away.

               Flint reached up under his shirt to drag the cool washcloth over his stomach and lower back. It was hard to resist the urge to palm himself through his breeches. Perhaps, he could go outside under the pretense of throwing away the used water from the bucket, find cover somewhere, and rub one out. Again, he glanced at John.  His eye caught on John’s fingers, curling and twitching. Before he could stop himself he’d pictured those fingers doing exactly that inside him, and then he _knew_.

               Now that his secret fantasy had manifested himself in front of him once more, trying to take care of his desire privately would no longer be enough. It would never be enough again. This time, it had to be truly resolved.

               Flint dropped the cloth into the bucket. From the micro-expression on John’s face, he knew the sound had caused a reaction, but John suppressed the reflex to turn his head.

               Trying to proposition John for sex was not the sort of thing that Flint could take back. Especially not as the act would involve breaking the laws of a dozen or so empires (may they burn to the ground). That added a sort of seriousness to it that could not just be brushed off. It would alter their relationship forever. And with the situation they found themselves in now, it could alter a lot more than that. So, before he could do such a thing, Flint had to be sure.

               He went for the buttons of his pants, popped them open one by one. Having already left his boots at the door, he lowered his pants and stepped out of them. With a few paces he was at the chair, and draped them over it. The movement across the room did catch John’s attention enough for him to briefly turn his head. _Good._

               What would come next, would have to be done with care. It had to appear casual. Flint placed his feet, one after the other, on the edge of the bucket to wash them. Though his heartbeat and restless energy urged him to go on, he took his sweet time. Next, he washed his legs. From ankles up till where his shirt began. Drawing in a breath, he crouched down. He drew up the fabric of his last remaining item of clothing a little further. Spread-legged, he sat angled toward the room, _angled toward John._ Then, he went to rewet his washcloth. It was subtle, but what it would cause could speak volumes.

               Flint began cleaning the newly exposed parts of his legs. That’s when it happened. A casual glance at first, falling on Flint’s face. Then it drew down, and lingered, right _there_. Flint pretended not to have noticed. Brought the rag to his crotch and proceeded to wash himself as if no one was watching. Though he was most keenly aware that John’s eyes were following his every movement.

               When he drew his eyes back up, John’s gaze was no longer upon him – but the way his curls were resettling around his head, and his cheeks were now painted a sweet shade of pink, gave away it had been until only a moment ago.

               Flint smiled faintly. He finished up properly, before he rising to his feet.

               “There’s still some blood on your back,” Flint said.

               Like a puppet played by a clumsy master, John raised his arm, awkwardly scrambling to reach his back, before realizing that was a physical impossibility.

               Striding over, Flint said, gently: “Allow me.”

               He took the washcloth from John’s hand, which was slumped on the edge of the tub. He kneeled behind John. From there, he had the view of both John’s back, and the way his beautiful body arched to disappear in the water. Water that was cascaded by soap and the washed off grime. It maintained one last thin veil of privacy. One Flint hoped he would soon get to shatter.

               Flint placed a gentle hand around John’s shoulder, and urged him forward. After John had exposed his back, Flint began washing mid-back, where some droplets which had rolled down John’s neck had put up their settlement. He had the cloth bunched up, separating his hand from the other man’s skin as far as was possible, not yet daring to be greedy. He drew soothing circles that removed not only the red, but also the caked up dirt, dust and sweat, to reveal underneath tanned skin.

               Moving up, Flint chose to brush aside the ends of dark curls, to be able to properly wash shoulder blades, shoulders, and finally, neck. In doing so, he found another patch of dried up blood caught behind John’s ear. He unfolded the cloth, and held his breath as he moved in to remove it. John allowed it, even bended his head to provide better access. His eyes slipped closed, as Flint softly brushed over the spot. John appeared lost in the moment, savoring the small affection. It made Flint’s knees weak.

               It also inspired a pang of guilt. What if John was enjoying this, because it was the only soft touch he had received in weeks, months? What if his spiteful predictions had come true, and despite remaining together, John and Madi only tolerated each other? What if they no longer knew tenderness between them? Hardly ever reached for each other with a touch filled with love? Perhaps, Flint contemplated, he ought to tell John to get dressed, give him good counsel – confess that what he had said back on Skeleton Island had been mostly out of malice, so he may uproot the poisonous weed he had sown then – and tell John to go home.

               “You’ve got blood in your hair too,” Flint said.

               John leaned back into the tub, rolled his head all the way back in his neck so he could look up at Flint.

               “Where?”

               “Mostly up front,” Flint said, gesturing vaguely.

               John brought up a hand and rubbed at his hairline, inspected his fingers afterwards. Imploringly, he looked at Flint. Flint got up and brought the bucket over. Set it on the floor next to the tub. Stood back and waited.

               “I would like for you,” John began, every word carefully chosen and given its time to resonate like a sentence on its own, “to help me with this too.”

               Flint went to his knees once more.

               “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

               “Yes, Captain,” came John’s breathy response. He closed his eyes and leaned back.

               It touched Flint deeply how complete the trust was John showed in that  moment. How fully he surrendered himself – naked, defenseless, and blind. There was a time, when no one would have afforded him such trust, when he hadn’t deserved it either. It attested to something that John, who had known him during that exact period, would let his guard down like this.

               Flint dipped his cupped hands into the bucket. He brought small amounts of water streaming down over John’s head. With both rag and fingers he washed John’s head, combed through the locks, soaping them up, rinsing them out. He cleaned John’s hair very, very thoroughly. He did not hold back in massaging John’s scalp either. Rubbing soothing circles. With the continued effort, John relaxed visibly. Muscles going slack, arms hanging over the side.

               Eventually, Flint’s hands fell to John’s shoulders. John was leaning against Flint’s stomach then as much as the tub. Still, he remained seated with his eyes closed, calm and pliant.

               The rag was in Flint’s hand again. He dragged it the muscles of John’s chest, which were rising and sinking fast. He pushed the rag down over John’s stomach. John pressed into the touch, followed after it when Flint lifted the cloth ever so slightly away. Flint dragged the rag back up over John’s stomach, and then down again. He could hear John holding his breath as he slowly approached the water’s edge. He did not breach it, however. Instead, he followed it for a few inches, before again taking the rag upward. On its way to John’s chin, he brushed it over a nipple.

               John let out a shuddering breath, and dropped his chin to his chest. Encouraged by this reaction, Flint did it again. This time, however, he thinned out the cloth, and allowed his fingers to stroke more deliberately. John groaned, gripped the sides of the tub hard. His breathing came rough. And there it was, the head of John’s cock poked out above the water. There was no more pretending now.

               Flint pulled the washcloth away, letting it hang uselessly over John’s arm as he gripped John’s bicep. He was slumped against him now as much as John was slumped in the tub. He buried his face in John’s hair.

               “If you need me to stop,” Flint grumbled. “Tell me now, or I am not sure I’ll be able to.”               

               John turned his head, forcing Flint to sit back. He looked at Flint with those wide blue eyes that were high on the moment. Then, he took Flint’s hand. He took it with him, till Flint’s arm was wrapped around his body. And from his stomach he dragged it down. Into the water, then to the base of his cock.

               “Fuck,” Flint whispered. His head falling to John’s shoulder, and his fingers sliding around the hard flesh. For a moment, he was just holding John’s cock, letting the weight rest in his hand, letting the full realization of the situation crash into him.

               Then, his hold became more certain. He began stroking. Slow at first, from base to mid-shaft. But soon, they both needed more than that. So his hand scooted over the full length. Quickly, fiercely. Reveling in the sensation as much as being determined to bring John pleasure. _Oh, such pleasure._

               “Hu-ooh!” John cried. It was nearly a sob.

               With that, Flint shoved his arms underneath John’s armpits and hauled him up to his foot. John held himself up by Flint’s shoulders, as Flint hastily dried him off. Already too impatient, he picked John up and carried him to the bedroom bridal style. For a moment he feared it might offend John, who might see it as a criticism on his ability to move himself about. John though, simply looked at him like he was the world turned to gold.

               Flint dropped John on the bed, was on top of him an instant later, John already reaching for him. Both engaged the other in a deep, ferocious kiss. Tongues meeting and going where they had been denied for years. Flint broke free for a moment to rid himself of his shirt in the blink of an eye. Then he was back, the feeling of skin on skin further inciting their passion. They kissed, with their hands scrambling about to find any purchase they might to deepen their kiss. And John, now that he’d been introduced to it, wasn’t one bit shy. He used his half-leg to press them closer when Flint began gently rocking his hips. He reached between them to grab Flint’s cock, and happily began tugging on it. And finally, he bit Flint’s lip.

               Flint drew back, and looked at the feisty man underneath him. John looked up with pupils blown wide and an entirely self-satisfied grin.

               “Turn around,” Flint said.

               “Is that an order, Captain?”

               “Would you want it to be one?”

               John gasped. Then smiled, his eyes dopey and full of admiration that was more than admiration. He turned around, canting his hips so that his ass was pushed up. And what a beautiful ass it was. Round and firm, and ready for the taking. And by the way he was practically waving it at Flint, it was clear as day what he wanted. Craving it, just as Thomas had implied. But after all these years, Flint wasn’t going to rush this.

               Around John’s ankle is where Flint started his gentle caress. He let it wander over John’s calf, then up over the back of his knee. His other hand joined the effort on John’s other leg. Both hands caressed the back of John’s thighs. And John’s breath hitched as, just before the globes of his ass, Flint’s hands detoured sideways to travel instead over John’s hips. Flint’s hands met again at the small of John’s back, where he dug his thumbs in the skin as if he was going to give John a massage. John moaned as Flint rubbed the tense muscles around his spine. Slowly, so very slowly, he let his fingers wander lower. John raised his ass up from the bed even further, beckoning him.

               Again, however, Flint detoured at the very last moment. Letting his hands take the same path down as they took up, and avoiding the beautiful globes altogether. John sighed softly.

                When Flint was back at John’s knees, he urged John to spread his legs with the gentlest push. John responded immediately, spreading his legs wide, exposing the back of his balls to Flint’s view. Flint felt the urge to lick them, but resisted. He was certain he could wind John up even further, making him leak and beg, until his craving would finally be answered. If John had sought him out to be fucked, then he was going to make John remember the occasion for the rest of his life.

               With feather soft touch, his fingertips trailed up over John’s inner thighs. He trailed them up higher and higher, until with one twitch he could touch those intimate parts where John desired his touch most. Then, he trailed back down, even as John groaned in frustration. He repeated several variations of this, committing the feel of John’s strong muscles and soft skin to his memory. Fighting his own urge to reach out and touch, claim, feel. The more intoxicated he became by how John held his breath every time he came nearer, and pressed his ass up every time he trailed away, the harder it became to resist.

               “Is there something you might want, Mister Silver?” Flint asked. He’d intended to go for cool arrogance, but arousal had long since claimed his voice.

               John shuddered. “Please.”

               “Please what?” Flint teased, as he moved his fingers up John’s legs again. “Is this what you are after?” And with that, because he could scarce hold back anymore, he finally slid his hands over John’s ass. Grabbing the sensuous flesh, stroking, kneading, and enjoying it to the fullest. John gasped. It was a deep throaty sound, mingled with a  groan.

               “Please,” John repeated. Wanton, and begging, truly begging, with no hint of his normal cockiness left.

               Flint took both globes, and parted them in a rough and determined motion. John moaned, loud and devoid of any and all shame. This is where Flint’s control broke once and for all. There was a whole other level of teasing that he could have engaged here, but John was all but trembling under his touch, and Flint himself was achingly hard, leaking keenly.

               He took a moment to imprint very clearly in his mind what a picture John made like this. Sprawled out on the bed, ass in the air, and so, so hungry for it. As he crept up over John’s body, he vowed not to forget that sight until the day he died. He breathed one hot damp breath over John’s hole, before he sank down on it.

               “Motherfuck–!” John cried out.

               Flint ceased his efforts for a moment, grinning wickedly, very pleased with himself. Then he licked again over the sensitive ring of muscle. It took only a few moments of Flint licking over it, circling it with his tongue, for John to be reduced to a groaning, moaning, slack mess. That is when Flint used his tongue to start penetrating him. The muscle gave easily at this point. With the littlest effort he could fuck his tongue in and out of John smoothly. When he could reach no deeper that way, he pulled free.

               Stretching his body full length over John’s, he put a loving kiss on the back of John’s head. He reached for the drawer of the nightstand, pressing his swollen cock against John’s ass.

               John immediately brought his hand up to grab at Flint’s hip and press them closer together. Flint hummed a deep rumbling tone of satisfaction.

               “Are you going to put that in me now?” John asked, his voice raspy and deep, as if it came out of the earth itself.

               “Almost,” Flint promised. He pressed another kiss to John’s temple.

               Flint pulled the oil jar out of the nightstand, covered his fingers gratuitously. With his other hand he snatched his pillow from the head of the bed. His, not Thomas’s.

               “Up,” he urged John, and when the other obeyed, he slid the pillow underneath John to lift his ass up in the air.

               Because Flint was fairly sure this was John’s first time, he wanted to test the waters a bit further before committing truly. Through a combination of John’s eagerness and the oil, his index and middle finger slipped in easily. A string of breathless curses spilled from John’s lips, and he thrusted up to welcome the invasion. Sweat formed on John’s back as Flint worked him with his digits. John loved every bit he gave him.

               Soon after, Flint was certain John could take his cock. He slipped his fingers free, and John keened in a way that went straight to Flint’s heart. Quickly he covered John’s body with his own.

               “Sssh, sssh, this’ll be good,” he said, lining his cock up. Then, just before he was to push in, he thought the better of it. “Turn back around… please.”

               And John was just as eager to obey as the first time. Flint pulled the pillow away and tossed it aside. And then John was looking up at him. Blue eyes gone dark. Face flushed. Precum smeared on his stomach.

               Flint hurried to line himself up again, and seeing no reasons to hold back any longer, he started pushing in. John’s eyes fluttered, and then turned up back into his head, leaving almost nothing but white. John bit his lip, but at the same time a loud drawn-out moan escaped him.

               Flint cupped his face.  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

               John smiled, and Flint smiled back, and then they kissed. This time it was a sweet kiss. Loving, affectionate, gentle. When Flint sat back up, he needed a moment to look at the man underneath him. The man who had seen him at his worst, and still came to him. The man who had forced him to stop holding his breath, and actually live again.

               Flint began with the shallowest of thrusts, his hand still cupping John’s face. And John looked at him like he was so, so lost on him. He looked at Flint, as if Flint just showed him how to bring the dead back to life. Flint’s mind was coming apart.

               John grabbed his hand and threw his head back. “James… Faster. Harder.”

               Flint looked at him a little thrown. He couldn’t quite tell if that was because of the request, or because John had just called him James. John nodded, urging Flint on further. Not being able to deny this man anything, Flint brought his hands to the headboard for leverage, and snapped his hips forward.

               John responded with a loud pleasure-soaked ‘ah!’. That shredded the whatever self-control Flint had still had. He began hammering into John, and John took it gratefully. The headboard banged against the wall. John accompanied this sound with a chorus of moans, curses, encouragements, and husky breaths. All at the volume nearing that in which one shouted orders across a ship’s deck. All of this was just fine, because they weren’t on the Walrus, or at the Maroon camp, or in London. This was a little farm house in the middle of nowhere, and if they wanted to fuck hard and loud, they would fuck hard and loud.

               With all the anticipation, and the teasing, it was no surprise that it wasn’t long before Flint felt the ending closing in. He tried shifting his angle to find that spot within John, to drive John over the edge first, but he appeared to be out of luck. Not that it would have been easy to mark the difference, with the overt way in which John was already enjoying himself. So, instead, Flint went for the conventional method and took John’s cock in hand.

               “I’m gonna make you come,” he whispered in John’s ear.

               As he stroked John’s cock, his thrusts became ever more erratic. A few breathy moans escaped him, before his eyes fell closed and he buried his cock deep. His orgasm ripped through him, and his hips made the last few, stuttering moves. The sensation was enough to draw John to the edge, and when Flint came down from it, it only took a few more strokes of his hand, before the warm sticky liquid covered his fingers.

               He collapsed on top of John, entirely worn out. He wrapped his arms around the other, and held him tight. John had his legs clasped around Flint, and like that they lay there for long minutes – catching their breaths, enjoying the afterglow.

               Flint stroked John’s hair. “I’m going to pull out.”

               John huffed, unwrapped his legs from Flint’s body. As Flint pulled back his hips and his cock popped free, John laughed.

               “That feels… weird,” he said.

               Flint smiled, settled down next to John on the bed. “Only the first few times.”

               John smiled and stretched out. “I guess I’ll remember this for the stories. ‘ _Captain Flint was my mentor in many ways. He thought me how to hunt, how to handle a sword, and how to be fucked in the ass’._ ”

               “Mmm,” Flint mused. “Perhaps a new brand for the name.”

               “You watch it,” Silver retorted. “Before you know it I’ll be telling the sea-faring men stories of how the ghost of Captain Flint will come to bugger them while they sleep.”

               Flint snorted. “Half of the lot will be dumb enough to believe it.”

               “I’ll get them to shove corks up their asses to keep themselves safe,” John snickered.

               The thought was so absurd Flint couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

               “Of course, there is going to be the occasional young man who is going to find the story quite alluring, without being sure why. Even when he’s found jacking it behind the galley, he’ll fail to make the connection immediately.”

               Flint cocked an eyebrow. “Are you becoming autobiographical?”

               John grinned. “Maybe.”

               Flint wrapped his arm around John, who settled closer in response. For a few moments they lay in silence.

               “Has Thomas named the cat yet?” John asked.

               “No,” Flint huffed.

               John frowned. His face thoughtful when he spoke again. “He seems… reluctant about its presence.”

               “It’ll pass.”

               “Will it?” John pressed. “When I first heard you two discussing it, I thought it was simply a matter of not having gotten around to it. Or perhaps finances. However, now that I think back to it, it seems to sound more like Thomas was not quite comfortable with the idea of having a cat.”

               Flint sighed, he looked down into those big curious eyes. “Don’t let him know I told you this.”

               “I won’t,” John promised, but beamed simultaneously.

               Flint smiled wistfully. Every time this man managed to worm himself in his head.

               “Back in London,” Flint began, “friends of Thomas, one Lord and Lady Suskind, had a beloved house cat. A thorough-bred, beautiful creature, with long graceful manes. Lady Suskind especially loved this animal, spoiling it like a favored child. But just like Miranda and Thomas, these two were great people. Determined to lift the world out of its ignorance. Soon enough, that led to enemies. After backing a particularly controversial scientific paper, they came home from a party to find their sweet cat dead. Pinned to the door with a note: ‘We want none of your blasphemous thoughts here, you scum.’ From the way the blood was splattered all over the place, the cat was most certainly alive when the deed was done. The couple was distraught, and so was Thomas. Ever since then he’s been afraid he would undoubtedly cause any pet to suffer the same faith. Being a rational man, however, he knows that thought is unreasonable. But as he is unable to shake it, he simply feels embarrassed about the whole thing.”

               Blinking, John appeared confused for a moment. “I’m sorry, I did not want to make either one of you unco–”

               “It will be alright. He’ll warm up to her.”

               “Good,” John said. He propped his chin on Flint’s shoulder and sighed. “Thank you. What we did, it was… I needed… It felt good.”

               Flint held John’s gaze. John’s words had a ring of a goodbye to it. Unwittingly he drew his arm around John a little tighter. He turned to his side and hooked a leg around one of John’s.

               “Were you… completely new to it?”

               “No,” John answered. He considered a moment before continuing: “I’ve felt the urge to explore in my private moments.”

               He tapped his fingers on Flint’s chest. Flint’s eyes flicked down to them. John and his fidgeting fingers. Of course it had been only a matter of time they found their way there.

               “I’ve also asked for Madi to assist me with it, but she wasn’t very amenable to it. The two times she did though, it was glorious.”

               Flint smiled, but continued to look at John imploringly.

               “Eh, no, not that,” John replied. He shifted on the bed. “When I came looking for you, I didn’t quite know what it was I wanted from you. But even if I had, I doubt I would have cared for it with anyone else.”

               The weight of that confession lay heavy on Flint, although more akin to the heaviness of a warm blanket than that of a rock. Though his mind was also filled with further questions, the most pressing of which had popped up again, when John had mentioned Madi.

               “How are things between you and her?” he asked carefully.

               Immediately, he came to regret it. John disentangled himself from him and John sat up, as if he was leaving. He did remain on the edge of the bed however. He shook his head.

               “They are complicated,” he admitted. “I love her, and she loves me, but… They are complicated.”

               “I am sorry–” Flint began

               “Can we not talk about it?” ~~~~

Flint nodded. He crawled up to John. Instinctually, he wanted to press himself against John’s back and wrap his limbs around him. He was reluctant to touch John then, fearing, perhaps most of all, to be thrown off.

               “My mouth is dry. I would like to have a drink,” John stated. “Could you perhaps get me my crutch?”

               Flint picked up his shirt and shrugged it on. He hesitated an instant before leaving the room to do as he had been asked.

               A moment later, Flint returned with the crutch. He gave it to John before turning back around. John took it gratefully, feeling immediately better now that his capacity to move freely had been restored.           

               Flint went to retrieve them both a cup of beer. The late afternoon sun, assisted by the short ginger hairs that covered him, turned his skin to gold. John followed the man’s pale bare legs from their feet to the hem of his shirt. Looking at that, the glow within him returned. He felt content, more satisfied than he had in years. The restlessness which had bothered him for so long, was finally gone.

               He got up, fully intend on covering the distance between him to kiss Flint - showing in that way his gratitude, and his regret for lashing out a moment ago. He considered going out there in the nude, but as this was not his home, the idea still made him uncomfortable Thus, he took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Tugging one corner over his crutch, he pinned it in place with his body.

               Before John reached Flint, the latter turned around. Their eyes met, and briefly Flint looked uncertain. Then, a smile broke on his face, and John gladly returned it. Invisible ropes wrapped around them both and bound their souls together, and if the movement burned in so doing, it was only a pleasant one.

               It could have been a very tender moment, but instead John froze in his place. He felt like he’d been caught thieving the family jewels of a sweet old lady that had  helped him with his troubles only hours earlier. Thomas was sitting right there, peeling an apple.

               “Now see,” John began, willing the inspiration to come so he could spin some story. He shot a glance at Flint, who seemed unjustly calm under the circumstances.

               “Don’t bother,” Thomas said. “I’ve been here for a while. I know precisely what you have done. It does not take that long to get to town, especially not with a horse.”

               Caught. Fair and square. John’s heart hammered in his chest. Perhaps if he’d not been so loud, he could have still made up some believable excuse – they had been inspecting each other for ticks; they had taken a nap and it was warm; they had been showing each other their scars, and well it just got out of hand.

               “No need to look so startled,” Thomas continued.

               “Beg pardon?” Silver returned, attempting to stand up straighter.

               Thomas sighed. “You are assuming I am upset about what you have done, yes?”

               “Eeeh..,” John responded.

               “I am not.”

               John frowned. He hopped forward. “Let me get that straight,” he said. “You’re saying you’re perfectly aware James and I spent the afternoon fucking in your bed, and that you are not upset about this?”

               “Yes.”

               John stood there, blinking stupidly.

               Thomas put down the apple and the knife.

               “With what James and I have been through, I can confidently say we are going to spend the rest of our lives together. This means I can have him all to myself every day, till the day I die. With that in mind, I see no problem with sharing him with you for a little while, so you may both have a greater peace of mind.”

               Silver huffed. Was this man attempting to play him some cruel trick? Was this some sort of trap he was about to walk into with both eyes open? John glanced at Flint. For a moment he seemed equally taken aback. Next, he was walking over to Thomas and kissed his cheek. John wanted that to be enough to believe that this was no façade. Wanted to believe Flint would not support a scheme to betray him. At the same time, there was a chest full of treasure in the ground somewhere to prove otherwise. So he stood back, reluctant, as he watched the scene of loving domesticity.

               Tugging at Flint’s shirt, Thomas said: “Give me this. It’s stained with blood.”

               Flint obeyed, slipping the garment off. Once again, the full scope of his freckled body was revealed. Only moments ago, John had had all of that pressed close to him. Now, it felt as if there was an ocean between them.

               “I’ve washed the other clothes, they’re hanging outside to dry. I’ll get to this in a moment,” Thomas said. He picked up a rag from the table. Holding it out to Flint, he said: “Now go clean John, will you? Not everyone enjoys the sensation of cum dripping down their thighs as much as you do.”

               John felt his face heat up. It was especially bewildering to him that Thomas could just go back to peeling the apple, as if he had not just said what he’d said.

               “C’mere,” Flint said, as he stepped up to John.

               Though John remained frozen to the spot, not at all able to think of a way to respond to this situation – a situation that in no way matched what he had thought he was going to face. Flint stood right in front of him, bare and completely unashamed, and gave him a patiently inquisitive looking. That set the cogs of his brain back into motion. Thomas was right, the sensation of being wet down there was not entirely pleasant. So he wanted it cleaned up, alright. Well, he could just take the cloth from Flint, shut himself in the bedroom and do it privately. But thinking of that, something flared up in him, something angry. If Thomas thought he could take the piss out of him, if Thomas thought he could sit there and bluff, then he would show him. He would let him see that he and Flint touched each other lovingly, and that there was no joke in it at all.

               John let the corner of the blanket slip free from its hold under his arm. Flint took the edge and folded the blanket open, but also stepped in close to him. That way he shielded John both with the remaining blanket and his own body, making it a private affair after all.

               One of Flint’s hands gently wrapped itself around John’s hip. The other brought the rag around John’s body. Flint’s cloth covered fingers danced over his skin. A breath hitched out of him when cleaned him more intimately. He swayed forward, and ended up being pressed into Flint’s chest. His eyes slipped shut while he was being cleaned. It was vaguely embarrassing, but mostly he felt cared for. His hands were grasping at Flint’s arms. When John opened his eyes again, Thomas was gone.

               He stared at the empty spot at the table. “What the fuck,” he blurted out.

               “Hmm?” Flint responded, as he proceeded to hand John his beer.

               John hesitated, aware that he might just unearth Flint’s old temperament if he would not choose his next words carefully.

               “Thomas has a tendency of saying things I am not quite sure I believe,” John finally offered.

               Flint’s eyes locked onto John’s immediately. John’s breath hitched, but this time for an entirely different reason. Had Flint not been standing naked before him, he would have feared a hidden knife that might end up in his gut. In that moment, John Silver regretted… himself.

               “You listen carefully now,” Flint said, sternly. “In this wicked world there is many a person who is deceitful. There are plenty who would be pretentious enough to say the things Thomas says without meaning them. But he doesn’t. If you intend to stay but another moment, I need you to accept that fully, and unquestionably. Thomas means those things. Thomas is a _good_ man.”

               When the realization hit John, it felt like the air was being punched out of him.

               “Jesus!” he said, stumbling back.

               Of course, before he had left, he had told Madi that he intended to find Flint. And even though he himself did not fully realize the driving force behind it at that time, she must have on some level. So by agreeing with him that this was the right path to take, she had given her tacit permission. Yet, John knew very well knew that if he would ever tell her plainly what he had done, she would be hurt by it. Thomas on the other hand, appeared to be able to completely absolve himself of such feelings.

               “Jesus,” he said again.

               At least now he understood where Flint had gotten his stubborn idealism from.

 ***

Their dinner was roasted chicken with apple sauce, but for all Flint cared they could have been eating maggot-invested bread. He felt so fulfilled and happy, that anything would have appeared extraordinary.

               During their dinner they mostly talked about what Thomas had encountered in town, the people he’d helped, the stories they had told him. At first, John was a little quiet, but after a while he got comfortable. And Thomas was the one who was orchestrating it: At every opportunity he drew John into the conversation. He gave him the best part of the meat. And he was being downright affectionate –  a pat on John’s back here, a hand on John’s knee there, and when they were laughing about something he grabbed hold of John and drew him closer. It could have been a spark in a powder magazine, spooking John into doing something radical, but it worked exactly as Thomas had intended it.

               Flint too sought Thomas’ affections, reaching for his hand multiple times during the night. He was happy Thomas had taken it so well. Of course, Flint had never known Thomas to be possessive, to let his love restrict someone else’s free will. Additionally, had Thomas not insinuated the move to him, Flint would probably not have risked it anyway. Still, it would not have been unthinkable for Thomas to have taken it unfavorably one way or another. After all, over the past years it had been firmly understood between them they were monogamous. But now that there had been a diversion from that agreement, Flint’s love for Thomas had only increased.  

               Things between Flint and John were comradely. They were at ease with each other again the way they had been during that short window of time when that wicked treasure was in the soil of Maroon Island. The only difference being that now the ache was gone. The unsatisfied longing that had been there, chafing like an ill-fitting boot.

               When it was time to go to bed, John settled in his customary place in the chair. Flint lingered for a moment, looking at him. He measured his desire to, and his consideration of appropriateness of, wishing John goodnight by planting a kiss on his forehead. He also thought about how John’s back must be sore like a fresh rigger’s hands. Flint disappeared into the bedroom before he remained long enough for either one to comment on it.

               Flint caught Thomas peeling off his breeches. He walked up to him, cradled his face and kissed him. After stripping down to his shirt himself, Flint settled under the covers next to his long term companion. The moment he lay down, it became clear how exhausted he was. The only thing that kept him conscious, was the candle still flickering on Thomas’  side of the bed.

               He wanted to ask what kept Thomas from putting it out, but all his tired body would allow him was: “Hmm?”

               Thomas pushed the covers aside and left the bed. Too tired to move or form any further questions, Flint remained laying on his side with his back to the door. He did, however, feel a sense of curiosity rising in him, and vowed to stay awake until Thomas returned.

               A moment later, he heard shuffling feet and a distinct thumping approaching the bed. He rolled over to see. Thomas was leading a slightly perplexed and very cautious John Silver by his hand into the bedroom.

               “I see no use in making him sleep in that wretched chair any longer,” Thomas clarified.

               A moment later he settled back in his rightful place in the bed. He left John standing about a meter away from the bed. The man was still dressed in shirt and trousers – the way one would when sleeping in someone else’s living room. He also appeared uncertain about actually getting in the bed.

               Slowly he began prying his shirt from his pants, followed by somewhat awkwardly pulling the garment over his head. His hands went to his trousers next, but he hesitated.

               “I, eh, I tend to…,” he mumbled.

               “Sweetie, don’t worry,” Thomas said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

               Thomas wrapped an arm around Flint’s waist and encouraged him to move further to the center of the bed, making room for John. After another moment of hesitation, John opened the buttons of his pants and dropped them.

               Flint’s breath sped up, but not solemnly from seeing John’s naked form again. His groggy mind scrambled to form an opinion the proceedings. Whereas a suppressed part of him had been prepared for what had happened earlier that day, there was no notebook whatsoever for the situation that was unfolding at that moment.

               John made a nervous sound, almost a giggle, when he lifted the blanket to claim his place next to Flint. He kept his distance. Their eyes met, and Flint felt a nervous giggle bubbling up too.

               “Go on, don’t be afraid,” Thomas whispered in Flint’s ear.

               It took a moment, but then Flint reached for John’s shoulders. He pulled him ever so gently, giving John every opportunity to deny what he was not comfortable with. John did no such thing, instead moving closer to him. One hand snaked into John’s hair. The other was loosely tangled over John’s hip. Once Flint felt John’s breath dampen his collarbone, and John’s hand brush through his chest hair, he rapidly tumbled into sleep.

 

*** 

John stretched his legs and rolled on to his side. There was nothing straining his mind, nor an ache anywhere in his body. It had been a long time since those were the first realizations he woke up to. Slowly, he opened his eyes. In an unfocused haze he tried to establish where he was.

               A moan called him to attention. He woke up all at once. His eyes caught Flint lying next to him, his eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and his shirt drawn up to his nipples. Behind Flint was Thomas, and Thomas very decidedly had Flint’s cock in his hand. He was stroking it, and Flint was gently bucking his hips.

               Instantly, John felt like an intruder. This scene could not possibly have been meant for his eyes. Yet, he was intrigued. Flint appeared so lost in pleasure, so fully at Thomas’ command.  Perhaps if John closed his eyes again, he could pretend to be asleep.

               “Good morning, John!” Thomas’s delighted voice greeted him.

               Flint bucked his hips harder, proving at once he found the thought of John witnessing this alluring. John’s mouth fell open. He was torn between looking at Flint’s pleasure soaked features, and Thomas’ gracious fingers around Flint’s cock, stroking from that patch of fiery red hair to the engorged head.

               His dilemma was resolved by Thomas capturing his gaze instead. Hooded eyes and heady voice addressed him: “John… Do you want to see James get fucked?”

               The entire world stood still. John was nailed in place by a thousand painless needles. All he could do was nod and push out a whispered: “Yes.”

               Thomas grinned, before bowing down to press his mouth to Flint’s ear.

               “James, do you want John to watch you while you are screwed clueless?” he whispered.

               Flint clawed at Thomas’ arm and nodded fervently. In response, Thomas pressed his own body closer, and began nibbling on Flint’s neck. It was enthralling to see Flint this way. Fully surrendered to Thomas, so pliant, so submissive, so under his spell that it appeared he would let Thomas do anything to him. It wasn’t the Flint he had experienced yesterday. That had been the Flint he’d always known: powerful, with roaring fire barely contained beneath his skin – something almost beyond human.  But this Flint, this was something near magical to witness. John wondered if he could learn to do what Thomas did. Could calm all that power, and have it at the mercy of his touch.

               “John, would you please get the oil?” Thomas asked.

               Reaching inside the bedside table – where he now knew it to be – John did as he was asked. Flint whimpered when Thomas stopped stroking him. Thomas slid his hand down Flint’s inner thigh. Slowly, a smile crept onto Thomas’ face.

               “Onto your stomach, love,” Thomas said.

               Rolling over, Flint exposed his broad freckled back. John felt the urge to rub his hands over the expanse of flesh that was displayed before him. He held back, however, unsure of how much liberty he was afforded.

               Thomas slicked up his fingers, while massing one of Flint’s butt cheeks with his other hand. Flint moaned appreciatively. Thomas parted Flint’s cheeks and pressed his index finger to Flint’s rim. Flint gripped the sheets tightly. John’s resolve broke.

               “Do you always do it like this?” he asked.

               “No,” Flint groaned.

               “We do whatever feels right in that moment,” Thomas supplied. He pushed his finger inside Flint’s body. Flint arched his back in response, pushing his hips back to urge Thomas to go deeper.

               “Is this what you did for him yesterday?” Thomas asked Flint. “To get him accustomed to the sensation?”

               “Two,” Flint muttered under his breath.

               “Two fingers from the start?” Thomas raised his eyes to John. “My, you _are_ an eager one.” Turning his attention back to Flint, he continued: “Then you ought to get the same treatment, don’t you agree?”

               Without waiting for a response, he added a second finger. A slightly uncomfortable sound escaped Flint, but his knitted brows soon relaxed.

               “Tell me, John,” Thomas said, as he continued to work his two fingers in and out.

               It was quite the effort for John to drag his attention away from the point where Thomas’ digits disappeared in Flint’s body.

               “Did he tell you about the prostate?” Thomas continued once he had John’s attention. “Did he curl his fingers and illustrate to you the way it feels when stimulated? The pleasure to pale all pleasures?”

               And evidently, as he spoke of it, that’s what he did to Flint. For Flint gasped, raised his head up from the bed, and began erratically bucking his hips – trying to get more of what he was given.

               “Tut, tut,” Thomas chastised him, smacking him across his ass. John drew in a sharp breath. “Not until I say so.”

               Flint stilled, or tried to. Desperate eyes looked up at John. Thomas added more oil, and continued working an increasingly despairing Flint with his fingers.

               “Fuck,” John whispered.

               Flint focused his dazed eyes on John. A dopey smile fixed on his face as their gazes met. His hand snaked under the covers and settled on John’s knee. He squeezed it.

               “Love, do you think you’re ready to take me?” Thomas asked, stroking Flint’s back.

               “Hmm,” Flint confirmed.

               Thomas pressed a kiss between Flint’s shoulder blades. He pulled his fingers free, and began slicking up his cock. Again, he added more oil to Flint’s body as well. He took a moment to work some of the liquid in with one finger.

               Flint braced himself on his forearms as Thomas lined up his cock.

Thomas inched in, slowly, so very slowly. And even as such, Flint’s hand fluttered up. He placed it on Thomas’ thigh. His other hand continued squeezing John’s knee.

               “Wait,” he said, and Thomas halted.

               Flint took a couple deep breaths. This part he had never really liked. Once his body had become used to the stretch, he loved it. The feel of Thomas’  balls against him, the way it felt when Thomas hammered his prostate, or when he came inside him. Those parts, Flint loved. But this, he’d rather forego altogether.

               Thomas knew this of course, so he nuzzled Flint’s neck. Gave him soft butterfly kisses on his shoulders. Reached under them and began stroking his cock.  This had the desired effect, and Flint urged Thomas to go on. This time, still at a gentle pace, Thomas slid all the way in. There, he held still again.

               After a few breaths, he began with shallow thrusts that consisted more of a swaying of the hips than actual movement. Gradually, these were build up to full thrusts. Out to the start of the head, and then all the way back in.

               “Come on,” Thomas said. He wrapped an arm around Flint’s chest, and pulled him up. The both of them were on their knees then, back and chest pressed against each other. Thomas’ arm still around him.

               And oh, from this new position Flint could look down at John’s face. That beautiful face, with eyes going black again, and mouth hanging open, and intense desire written all over it again. The way Thomas had orchestrated this situation – Flint loved him so dearly for it. To be able to make love with the one man he loved most of the world, and have the other only an arm’s length away.

               The new position also gave John a full view of how Thomas was both working over his cock, and pounding into him. It made Flint feel exposed, but that only served to heighten his pleasure. He took note of how John’s hands were twitching. He was probably dying to touch himself.

               When Thomas twisted one of his nipples, Flint moaned loudly. At that moment, he wanted Thomas harder and deeper. Before he could ask, however, Thomas dragged them both back. Thomas ended up kneeling with his long legs folded under him, and Flint on his lap.

               Thomas licked his ear. Then he whispered, at a volume that John could still clearly hear: “Ride me.”

               In a flash, it occurred to Flint that perhaps they were going too far. That showing himself in such an act to his former quartermaster was too much. But he was too far gone in his pleasure to reject Thomas’ proposal. Besides, he was not ever again going to be a slave to shame.

               So he repositioned himself, spread his legs, sat in such a way that his thighs would do most of the work. He dragged himself up and sank down fast. Then again. And again. And again. Soft little moans escaping him, in rhythm with the head of Thomas’ cock hitting home. Thomas’  hand was still stroking his cock, grabbing it and squeezed it tighter, so the grip was just on the good side of painful. It was perfect. All of it. He felt that sensation of urgency draw up in his balls. He just needed a little bit more now.

               The next time he wanted to sink himself down, Thomas’ hands grabbed his hips, firmly. They held him still, keeping him suspended there with Thomas’ cockhead just barely inside him. Thomas’ hand also stopped stroking him in that delicious fashion it had.

               A whine escaped him.  Then he looked at John, who looked as desperate as Flint felt. His cock twitched, even though there was nothing to give him friction now.

               Thomas drew himself up too, sliding his cock back in in the process. Pressing his leg against the back of Flint’s, Thomas signaled his intend to move forward. The small amount of friction that was created by their shifting of positions was nearly enough to tip Flint over the edge.

               At first Thomas’  intend had not been clear. Flint had simply obeyed because he had no idea how not to. Then, with a shock he realized where Thomas had steered them off to. His cock was standing from his body just inches away from John’s face. John looked up to Thomas, seeking some sort of permission. Then, he opened his mouth.

               A moment later, Thomas and Flint had positioned themselves over John’s body and Flint was sinking into warm wet heat.

               It wasn’t the best he ever had.  It contained a little too much teeth, and John’ tongue was more flicking than licking. But the fact that it was John, made it fantastic. He braced himself on the headboard when Thomas began rocking into him again, making sure not to give John more than he could handle.

               The pleasure that had so cruelly been halted, began building up again. And it was tripled when he allowed himself to truly look at John, who had that look on his face again. That look like Flint had made the world, and had crafted it so much more beautiful than it actually was. It knocked the air out of Flint’s lungs. He closed his eyes, feeling as if he was sinking into a warm pool of pure love and bliss. Liquid heaven. Thomas was working him exactly in the right way, and…

               Flint pulled out. He wanted to spend his seed somewhere that was less likely to offend John. But John grabbed hold of his wrist, and he couldn’t hold back anymore, and then he came. The liquid landed on John’s neck, his chin, his cheeks. John closed his eyes against it. And then when he opened them again, he looked like he was coming up for air from a dive in a lagoon after a particularly warm and straining week.

               A few moments later Thomas came too. They collapsed to the side. Flint lay panting heavily. He was entranced. Locked between Thomas’  arm and Silver’s shining eyes. He had a hard time grasping that he was allowed such good fortune, after the way he had lived. Righteous as he had felt, his deeds had been bloody. And that is how he knew that lying between two pairs of blue eyes, he had died and slipped into the afterlife. There, he was sure, he would be greeted by darkness and cruelty. So this blessed light, this penetrating love, that he could only have in his life.

               When Flint had almost caught his breath, Thomas kissed him behind his ear.

               “Looks like you have some work to do, love,” he said. His hand trailed over the sheets to John’s body. Flint followed it with his eyes, and caught on to the ridiculous way the blanket was tenting over his lap.

               “MEW!” It sounded from beyond the door. Tiny claws were scratching against wood. “MEW!”

               Thomas huffed. “Sounds like there is someone who demands my attention as well.”

               He disentangled himself from the bed, kissed Flint on his temple, and without further ado left the room.

               John’s brows knitted together as he stared after the closed door. Then it passed, and he looked at Flint affectionately. Flint slung an arm over him, nuzzled his thigh.

               “Give an old man a moment to catch his breath, will you?” he mumbled.

               Laughter bubbled out of John. “Old man? You? Hardly.”

               Flint began peeling away the blanket. He kissed John’s side, hip, thigh. Grazing over the skin with a hint of teeth. John shuddered.

               “What would you have me do?” Flint asked.

               Eyeing the door, it took John a moment to answer.

               “I would like… for you to do what you did yesterday… that thing with your tongue.”

               Flint grinned. “Fond of that, aren’t you?”

               John’s hand brushed through Flint’s hair. From his nape to his forehead, leaving it to look like a wild mane. Flint nuzzled John’s hand. John allowed that for a moment, before he brought his hand to Flint’s jaw, lifting his face, and forcing them to look each other in the eye. John’s eyes were like a hidden forest lake – shimmering, alluring, and with an unscalable depth full of mystery. When Flint focused on them, he thought he saw something swimming there under the surface, ready to burst out. But time passed and John said nothing, did nothing.

               “What is it?” Flint asked. Whispered it. As if the thing he believed he saw hiding there was fragile and rare.

               John continued to stare at him. His lips twitched. Then he shook his head.

               “Nothing,” he said. He nudged the blanket aside. “Just go on. Please?”

               Eyeing him up and down, Flint thought he saw the vapors of lies oozing off of John. But when it came to the personal, Flint knew John wouldn’t be pushed beyond half-truths and lies. Genuine thoughts were offered voluntarily, or not at all.

               So Flint nipped John’s thigh, who growled in response. He lifted the leg, and slithered under it. Having John’s cock all but in his face, Flint moved in and licked off the pearly bead that had formed on the slid. John hissed and his hand came reaching for Flint. Again tangling in his hair, but now far less affectionate and far more hungry. Flint sucked the head of John’s cock in his mouth briefly. An instant later, he let it pop free. John gasped at the loss. Flint grinned and put John’s other leg over his shoulder too.  He dragged John further down the bed.

               This left John open for Flint’s onslaught. Flint huffed as he saw the ring of muscle already fluttering, eager to take in whatever it would come in contact with.

               “Years of hidden longing,” John supplied, as if he was reading Flint’s thoughts. He pressed the back of Flint’s head to urge him on.

               Wanting to wait no longer, Flint responded. He bent down and licked over the crease of John’s ass to hole. He swirled around it, edging past the most sensitive part, before running the very tip of his tongue over its center point. A satisfied groan escaped John. The sound sent a jolt through Flint’s body. He sighed, the breath brushing against John’s sensitive flesh.

               “Don’t stop,” John breathed.

               Flint licked upward, dragging his tongue over John’s balls. As he went down again he dug his nails in John’s thighs. John pressed the flat of his foot against Flint’s back.

               “Hmm,” he moaned encouragingly.

               Flint’s tongue trailed the same path down, and this time he stroked his tongue fully over the little ring. As Flint swerved up and down, John was already beginning to unwind. Flint brought up his hand, searching for John’s. He took it from the back of his head, and brought it to John’s cock. He gave it a small press, urging John to take himself in hand and stroke. A brief glance was exchanged between them to confirm that this was really okay.

               Pulling the surrounding flesh taut with his thumbs, Flint dabbed in his tongue. John moaned loudly, and his hips launched off the bed. Flint had to hold him down to be able to continue.

               It wasn’t long before John spilled his seed and gasped for air as he orgasm overtook him. Flint continued to screw his tongue inside until John’s body calmed down, and his muscles went limb. 

               Flint freed John’s legs and went to rest his head on his thigh. Although he was well recovered from his own orgasm, he did feel rather out of breath. It was quite extraordinary to be allowed to have this. To be allowed both a steady supply of Thomas’  love, support, and radiance, and to simultaneously be allowed to consummate his love for John - a possibility he had thought forever lost until a few days ago. Though his mind was a practical one, who had no regard for fate, fortune, or gods, a thought began to worm its way in that perhaps he needed to give something back to the world to make him deserve this. Just to make sure.

He caressed John’s stomach. John’s hand came to find his, and he watched as their fingers intertwined.

               “If I may?” It was Thomas’  voice.

               Flint turned around languidly. No urgency in his movement, because there was nothing to be ashamed of.

               “I think I know what I want to name her,” Thomas said, holding the small cat in his arms.

               “Well?” Flint urged.

               Thomas mouth twitched nervously. “Miranda.”

               Flint drew in a breath. He sat up and blinked.

               “What do you think?” Thomas asked.

               “I think that’s lovely,” Flint said after a moment’s reprieve. He pushed himself off the bed. Coming up to Thomas, he caressed the cat over her head. A strange feeling passed through him. For a moment, it was as if he and Thomas and the small critter formed a world of their own. A world filled with love and peace. And with the way they held the little bundle of life between them, both pouring their affection onto it… Flint wondered if this is what it felt like to have a child with a spouse you loved dearly. That thought sprung another. What would it have been like if Thomas and Miranda had ever conceived a child? If by some small miracle, he and Thomas would have gotten him or her under their care. Would they now be parents to a young man or woman who resembled her? Who would offer a thought or viewpoint that would just be so entirely _her_. Oh dear lord, what if he had fathered a child himself? Surely, that was the more likely scenario. That would have been… the thought made him less than comfortable.

               He cast his glance to John to distract himself, but there he found something of concern as well.

               “Something on your mind?” he asked.

               “Well, it seems but a poor replacement for the person you lost.”

               Thomas smiled. “It is no replacement.” He took a moment to consider. “My heart will always continue to be filled with love by her memory. If I can bring that love into the world once more by focusing it upon this creature, it is the best way I can think of to honor her memory.”

               John did not seem to need to process that. And having nothing to say to it, or perhaps not wanting to, he cast his eyes down, self-consciously rubbing at the cum on his cheek.

               “Then the two of us will shower this kitten with love, if that is what you want,” Flint said.

               Thomas cradled him near, kissed his temple.

               “It is,” he affirmed.

               And then, before Thomas could bring it up, Flint went to get a cloth to help John clean. John looked at him thankfully when Flint touched him, and Flint suspected it was in part for the discontinued exclusion from a scene of happy domesticity. The interaction was sweet and wholesome, with Flint cupping John’s face as he washed it. Combing his fingers through the strands of John’s hair when he was done, looking at him, a little breathless, and telling him how beautiful he was. John looked a little scared, but ultimately happy.

 

 ***

 

Over the next few days, their life resumed to the way it had been before. With the exception of having one more person added. John became integrated into their life as a true inhabitant of the farm. He took a definite responsibility in the household, taking on him chores without being prompted to do so. Flint made him a chair. Thomas started discussing higher philosophy with him – a topic in which John wasn’t just an excellent student, but also a challenging sparring partner. And John brought a rejuvenated passion into the house. One look, word, or touch could be like a spark in a tinderbox. Every potential option was explored between them. Soon, reservations started to pass, and eventually John was more than willing not only to have Flint’s hands on him, but Thomas’s as well.

               The days passed by quickly – as they do when caught in a routine of happiness – and began turning into weeks. Things began feeling normal that way, as if it always had been like that. The sea, the blood, the revolution, and the sterile distance just a bad dream. A fiction belonging to someone else, not them. Things got so comfortable that when John stayed out late by himself one night, gazing at the stars, no one protested it. When Flint felt John slipping into bed later, he prided himself on having ignored the alarmed voice in his mind that had urged him to worry.

               When the town’s tavern owner organized a celebration for the whole town on account of receiving an unexpected inheritance from a distant family member, the three of them joined in. Their happiness causing them to disregard concerns about how Flint’s and Silver’s combined presence in public might inspire recognition. They were caught in a careless happiness, until quite suddenly Silver became entirely still. Flint followed the path of John’s eyes, and found him looking at a dark woman, obediently nodding while her white mastress was giving her a scolding. They left shortly after, but not before Thomas had used a clever ploy to win a set of dice from their cheating owner. In the comfort of their house, undisturbed by the injustices of the world, they played games until deep into the night. Thomas proving surprising apt in the sailors’ and crooks’ games too. When it was pointed out, he cheekily pointed out that Mr. Oglethorpe could not control everything that went on at his estate, and any unit of time measured in years was enough for even those submitted to hard labor to get bored. The sense of that being a delightful joke stemming mostly from the amount of alcohol they had already consumed at that point.

               One day, Flint and John went out for a long walk. They stayed away for hours, making Thomas b wonder if they were making love somewhere out under the trees. The thought amused him. Of course it would be a risk, but if John could have brought his James so far as to disregard that, it meant James’ soul had become a little freer yet. When they came home however, John’s eyes were red and Flint’s body was tense. John disappeared into the bedroom at once, closing the door behind him. Flint lingered outside, unease radiating off him. Thomas went up to him, tried to coax out of him what had happened. No matter his efforts though, Flint offered vague answers only. Nevertheless, when the sun began to set the two of them cuddled up in each other’s arms, clinging together like their lives depended upon it. Thomas was happy to leave them to it, reading one of the volumes John had brought in. It was never spoken of again after that.

               Flint was only half awake when the sun cast a warm glow over his face. He pressed himself against the body closely behind him. Long limbs and a torso stretching out beyond his. It was Thomas. Flint’s hands travelled through the pile of blankets to find John. He only found more wool.

               Lazily he opened his eyes. John was neither on Flint’s side of the bed, nor Thomas’s. Well, perhaps then, John had simply gone out on his body’s call.  

               Flint turned around so he was facing Thomas, who was still fast asleep, snoring lightly. Flint played with the hem of Thomas’  shirt. Time crept on till Flint realized that something else must be going on – John would have returned already otherwise. He took a deep breath, but he wasn’t met by the smells of food being cooked, of the fire burning. He listened intently, but heard no sounds indicating anyone else being in the house at all. Strange. Did they sleep so late John had already gone outside and started their work without them? Highly unlikely. John would sooner slip back into bed and just wait to be showered with morning kisses. Or, if he was truly desperate, try to wake either of them up with some sort of tactic of erotic warfare. Though, new habits could always be formed.

               Flint glanced at the bedroom window. The sun was barely up in the sky, just high enough to peep over the tree line. Flint frowned, and slipped out of bed.  He stood wavering at the doorpost for a moment. The house appeared strangely vacant. Then, he understood why. John’s crutch, boot, and coat were all gone. His jewelry that had sat in a low woven basket on one of the shelves – gone.

               Miranda, who had grown considerably over the last few weeks, rubbed herself against Flint’s leg. As the sensation registeried with him and reflex guided him to figure the source, his eye was caught by a piece of paper on the table. It was folded in half and had his name written on it. The letters were cramped but swirling. John’s handwriting.

               Flint picked it up, acid rising up, hand unsteady. He was trying to keep his mind clear as a growing dread was threatening to overtake him. He folded it open, and began to read.

 _“My dearest Captain,”_ it said.

               “ _By the time you read this, I will be gone. I know you will be upset with me for slipping away silently before the dawn, without a chance for us to say our goodbyes, and I can but hope you will forgive me. However, it was the only way I could see for this to go down. Had I told you of my intent, I am sure you would never have accepted my gifts. (The horse and the pouch of gold coin on the table – I wish for you use them to enhance your life).  You would have insisted there was no need, but they cannot even begin to express my gratitude for all that you have given me over the last weeks._

_I also fear that you would have attempted to persuade me to stay, and as always when you start talking I cannot resist. A thing that I could not allow to pass, for what we’ve had here could only ever have been of a temporary nature. After all, you have Thomas, whose kindness and patience I have tempted for long enough, and I have Madi, from whom I have already taken too much._

_Upon returning to her, we will set sail to England, where I will do my best to give her a good life. A life that is legitimate, so that she will be safe._

               _Yours truly, JS._ ”

               With trembling hands he lowered the letter to the table. His body felt stale and alien, and his skin was tickling as if his soul was leaving him. He stood blinking away tears. Then with a frown he focused on something that caught his eye: with his thumb he had smudged some of the words. The ink was still wet.

               He hurried outside, finding the horse to indeed be present, and running toward it. Only when a sharp pebble cut into his foot, did he notice his own nakedness. He turned back into the house, hastily put on pants and boots, and then sped back to the horse. When he turned it around towards the road, he spotted Thomas standing in the doorway. He froze. There was something disconcerting about the way he stood there in silence. Then, his muscles were forced into motion, grabbling for some sort of hold to keep himself from falling off the prancing horse. It had been startled by the sound of gunshots in the distance.

               “My love,” Thomas said.

               His eyes were filled with concern, with fear, and with hurt. Flint felt the pit of his gut twisting. His hands fisted in the mane of the horse, palms sweaty. His eyes shot to the road, and then back to Thomas, whose gaze pierced him to the core and burned him from the inside out. He could feel the heels of his boots kicking the horse. Imagined it a hundred times over. Now. Now. Now! He remembered the hellish sound of gunshots, cannonballs, and men dying. The Caribbean water sloshing against the unstable row boat, staring at that cerulean sinkhole that had swallowed John. He could taste the salt on his lips.

               Then there was just the cool spring breeze, the sun diluted by clouds. He raised his eyes up to the sky –  grabbing the bridles of the horse so tight the leather cut into his palms – and prayed.


End file.
